Bricks of Carelessness and Crumbs
by ramblingonandon
Summary: "Conceal your wounds if you have any; silence is the last joy of the unhappy," - Aramis [The Three Musketeers by Alexandere Dumas] Emotions are running high and hurts are simmering too close to the surface. The divide between the Inseparables would either tear them apart for good or knit them closer together. (conclusion of Embrace the World in Grey)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: And here is the conclusion!**

 **Set in Season 3, you'll see where the minute you start reading :) As always the lyrics at the start and the end are the inspiration behind this story, they belong to the people who wrote them and voiced them.**

 **Thank you everyone who left me reviews at the end of the previous story, your kind words and encouragement just blew me away. Thank you!**

 **Disclaimer:** **I don't own anything recognizable here, nor making any money either.**

 **Happy reading!**

* * *

 _ **You ought to know where I'm coming from; _ **How I was alone when I burnt my home.**_**_

 _ **And all of the pieces were torn and thrown. _ **You should know where I'm coming from.**_**_

– _**BANKS; [You should know where's I'm coming from]**_

* * *

He went after Pauline.

Pushed back everything that had just transpired as he sought the woman he had promised to help. The woman who he wished desperately would get her happy future and why was he so adamant about it Aramis did not wish to dwell on it at the moment. If there was something more than the desire of happiness for the girl he had shared his childhood with, something that was embedded in his need to see a life like his own prospering, he refused to touch upon it. Coming to a halt in the corridor he looked through the archway on his right then the left, wondering where she could have run off to. With a glance around the empty inner courtyard he decided to look for her in the outer one and turned left.

"So, did you shoot him?"

He stopped short, body tensing mid-motion as the words of his friend reached him.

"No." Athos said from just around the archway, "No, Aramis is my penance."

Porthos chuckled.

"Yeah, mine too," he said.

Footfalls receded, the clinking of weapons growing distant as the Captain and the Musketeer left. Aramis blinked once, pulled in a breath he didn't remember forgetting to inhale and felt something hard rise in his throat as heat settled behind his eyes. Blinking rapidly he stemmed the moisture before it could form fully in his gaze.

And walked out of the corridor, through the archway and into the yard. Squinting in the sunlight that felt abruptly bright as a twinge sparked in his back. There was a telltale stiffness at the base of his neck that threatened a worse headache than the one coiled around his forehead. Aramis rubbed his temple and took a measured his breath. A sharp pang skittered over his back. It was a constant these days, the tightening of muscles in his back after rounds of sword practice with his two oldest friends, sometimes the two of them joining forces against him.

He had accepted that it was their way of making sure that he was up to par after four years of no sword practice; and realized it was their way of soothing the pain of his abandonment. It was clear in the way Athos and Porthos got carried away and while they said he was the choice of sparring partner because the cadets were too far below their level; there had been times when the snarls were too real, the swipes of the blades too close and the bitterness in the gazes too vivid. Sometimes it was almost as if there was a desire to put him in his place, a need to make an example of him.

Aramis chuckled softly.

He had pushed back that thought whenever it had occurred before, but now –

Pinching the bridge of his nose to alleviate the burning in his eyes he let go a slow breath. Pauline, he had to find Pauline, the rest would have to be sorted later. He looked up and there she was, hurrying towards him and eager to get married. But there on her dress, a long stain of crimson arrested his gaze. Aramis didn't need the explanation to know what had happened as he felt his heart drop to his boots and something akin to frustration stirred in him.

He couldn't meet the eyes of his childhood friend as she broke down before her horrified fiancé. Listened to her broken sobs and tried not to think about his own life that was threatening to unravel from the tenacious grasp of his control. Closed his eyes against her failure to get the new life she wanted, against the pain of crushed dreams her own fear driven actions had trodden upon.

"Aramis, Aramis I had to," she pushed to her feet.

And he moved to help her on instinct, held on as she grasped his arms and shook him slightly.

"He wouldn't leave me be," she cried, "you have to believe me, I had to do it. I couldn't let him – I couldn't let my past destroy my future!"

She collapsed against him and Aramis held her close, saw not the woman wearing the blood of the man she had murdered but the snot nosed little girl he had carried on his back through the streets of Paris, trailing after his Maman.

"Calm down Pauline," he murmured, "Hush, sh..."

He pulled her along and helped her up his horse before settling behind her, ignored her question if he was going to send her to the Bastille as he rode to the garrison. He knew that she had done was wrong, knew that she was a murderer but he could not outright condemn her. He needed time. He needed to think.

"Will I be hanged?" she asked, "is this the way it will end?"

"You took a life,"

"He was going to destroy mine," she turned to look him in the eyes, "it was my chance Aramis, my chance for a better life,"

A better life, a new life, another chance.

He had been hoping for that too.

Gritting his teeth against the echo of the words he had accidently heard from his friends Aramis made no reply. A penance, a self-inflicted punishment to show repentance, but was he the regret too? Or was he simply the suffering they endured? Aramis refrained from wincing as he rode through the garrison entrance and guided his horse to the side of the courtyard where the cadets were practicing. His gaze fell on Brujon and he sent him to find Madame d'Artagnan as he dismounted, helped Pauline down and made sure that the bloodstain remained hidden in the folds of her dress.

He raised a brow as a young man landed by his feet, breathing heavily where he lay sprawled on his back. Aramis reached forward and hauled the younger one back to his feet, steadying the lad as he stumbled a bit.

"What did I tell you Claremont?" he asked.

The younger man wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and gave him a sheepish smile.

"Stay close to my opponent,"

"Why?"

"Gives him less space to maneuver his sword,"

"And yet you were far enough for him to land a kick,"

"Go to my enemy, don't wait for him to come to me," Claremont nodded.

Aramis patted him on the shoulder.

"Good lad,"

"Thanks Aramis," the younger man said.

Grinning as he stooped to pick up his sword before he hurried off to challenge Pierre again; that one still needed to practice his footwork Aramis wondered absently as he ushered Pauline ahead of him. The faster he got her out of sight of the cadets the better were her chances to remain a secret.

"Aramis?" Constance met him halfway to the refectory, "They found the last diamond and took it to the Palace – Pauline? What happened?"

"The marriage was cancelled," Aramis told her, "I need your help Constance,"

He hadn't been lying when he had told Pauline that he trusted this woman with his life, he had trusted her with his sword while he attended to a baby what felt like a lifetime ago, had believed in her ability to defend them all even when he had no proof of her considerable skill with a blade. And he offered her a smile as he caught the wary look in Madame d'Artagnan's eyes. Constance followed them to the empty dining hall, closed the door after her and looked from Aramis to Pauline who had flopped down on a chair. Aramis saw the cobalt eyes widen before the gaze sharpened his way.

"That is blood," Constance said, "and clearly not her own."

"It's not," Aramis said, "it's from the man who blackmailed her,"

"I take it he's dead at her hands,"

"Yes, and I need your help to keep her here for the time being,"

"Hide her you mean,"

"And make sure she stays put,"

Constance looked to the sniffling woman and then back at him. Aramis had wheedled her into helping the Musketeers enough times to know the second she relented. A smile touched his lips and Constance rolled her eyes.

"First an assassin now a murderess," she huffed, "the things I do for you,"

"You're a remarkable woman Madame d'Artagnan," he pressed a hand to his heart, his eyes softening, "and a wonderful friend,"

She had been, always.

He was sure that something may have shown on his face for the woman looked surprised. It was odd he thought, the way sincerity caught them off guard and he wondered if it was only his own honesty that was a shock to those he called friends. He had after all collected a mountain of lies, all to get the life he desired just like the woman he had brought with him. He glanced at Pauline who now sat staring in the middle distance and felt the tremors of his own shaken reality.

"Well go on then," Constance said, "do what you have to,"

Aramis nodded. A plan forming in his mind to help his childhood friend amidst the turmoil of his own position among his friends. It seemed he would need to see the Minister he realized.

"Thank you Constance," he said.

And walked out before the questions in her gaze could stop him.

* * *

He stood up as Emile and his wife scurried away.

With one hand clenched into a fist at his side Porthos bent to retrieve his dagger from the ground. It was silly, it made no sense but the thief's attempt to thank them had left him seething. Emile had almost spoken those words, had nearly invoked the vow that had been shattered into silence years ago. The one they hadn't found the strength to voice again. He thoughts broke upon the arrival of a rider and he glanced at Aramis when the man dismounted, landing on his feet with that annoying grin.

"Do you need my help?" he asked from no one in particular.

Although his face had scrunched up at the thought of jumping in the open grave.

"We don't need your help," Porthos told him.

If his words snapped in the air his eyes challenged the man to point it out.

But Aramis being Aramis simply grinned wider and stepped back from the edge. Taking off his hat and waving it before his face to ward off the smell and the flies. The brown eyes that met Porthos' showed no sign of his ire being received.

"All the better for me then," Aramis shrugged, "I just thought it was polite to ask,"

Porthos growled under his breath but his attention was snagged by Athos reaching out for him. He grabbed his old friend's hand and hauled himself out of the pit. The blue eyes that met his held an understanding of the shared pain that had flared in them at Emile's words. Athos looked to Aramis even as he handed the money he had found to Porthos.

"What you offer is too little too late," Athos said.

And wasn't that the problem Porthos thought. Sometimes he wondered what Aramis thought he could gain by coming back to Paris with them when clearly their lives held no place for him. Porthos took the money from their youngest too and wrapped it all in the handkerchief he had tied onto his face up till then; refused to acknowledge the way of Aramis' brown eyes travelled from one man to the other, looking for something the three of them refused to acknowledge. Porthos frowned at that thought before pushing it away.

"Wasn't there a wedding you were supposed to be at?" d'Artagnan asked.

"It was cancelled,"

"Why? The bridegroom had no other ring to offer?" Porthos asked.

And just like that the smile was back; sharp and bright and hard as steel as Aramis shrugged. Stepped aside to let the three of them get to their horses.

"Plenty of rings, but the mood was ruined I must say,"

"Good for you I'd think," d'Artagnan smirked, "You have a chance with her now,"

Porthos grit his teeth at the laugh that brought from the man who had returned to their lives. His jaw clenched at the sound and he wondered if Aramis even realized what he had done, what he had lost. Porthos urged his horse to move after Athos' and pulled it to a stop when his Captain did. He looked to his friend and followed his line of sight to where Emile and his wife were walking away.

"Do you suppose he had learned the error of his ways?" d'Artagnan asked from the Captain's other side.

"Whether he did or not wouldn't matter if he simply goes back to who he is," Athos said.

Porthos glanced from the distant figures to the man who had brought up his horse just little way behind his own; hovering just on the edge of pulling alongside him. It was that nerve in Aramis to even look for that place he had lost that fanned the flames of Porthos' anger.

"At least we know what to expect from him," he said, "it's better than being stabbed in the back,"

Aramis pulled up at his side, his gaze going to the couple they were watching before it turned back to them. Porthos glared at him as the man looked from their youngest to their Captain, to him; and for the first time since they had been reunited the big man glimpsed something other than hope and cheer in the brown depths. But Porthos told himself he no longer knew the face before him, no longer understood the nuances of the man who had once been his brother; that he no longer could read the gaze where they had shared entire conversations in a look.

"Betrayal is by nature only found where there is trust," Aramis said.

Porthos shrugged.

"Well you are the expert on that matter," he said.

His frown deepening at the brown eyes that widened slightly and something pulled at his heart. Porthos looked away. Shoved away whatever it was that he saw in the gaze that met his, ignored it until gaze burning holes in the side of his face relented and the man at his side looked away too. Aramis stared ahead at the path with something in his face that made Porthos' heart clench. He refused to acknowledge it.

"It seems I am," Aramis said.

"Then you'll understand why it pains us every time we see you," Porthos told the side of his face.

"You won't suffer for long my friends," Aramis smiled.

And Porthos felt something tighten in the pit of his stomach. It coiled even tighter when Aramis tipped his hat and shifted in the saddle. A smile appearing on his face again as he leaned forwards a bit to look around to Athos.

"Would it really take four Musketeers to return the money?" he asked.

"You have somewhere important to be?"

"By your leave Captain?"

Porthos bristled at the blatant disregard of his friend's question, not to forget the fact the man had tactfully refused to answer the Captain's inquiry. It was a habit their recently reunited comrade was developing, this disregard to Athos' authority that Aramis had been questioning ever since he had returned.

"Do what you have to," Athos said.

It seemed that was all the man was waiting for because he spurred his horse into a gallop, leaving them all in the dust. Something he is used to doing Porthos mused and looked back to Athos. The blue eyes that met his seemed surprised.

"He looks to be in a hurry," Athos said.

"Probably going after his 'friend' now that she is not to be married," d'Artagnan shrugged.

"When has marriage ever stopped him?" Porthos frowned.

"Well he is right that it doesn't require an entire retinue to return the money," Athos said, "you two can head back to the garrison and get some rest."

Porthos shrugged, he would follow the Captain if it was needed, had done that with even a chance of rest being a flare of a sputtering candle in the long darkness of life on the front lines. But if the luxury was offered, the thought of catching up on some lost sleep seemed enticing. He looked to d'Artagnan and found the younger one smiling. The big man rolled his eyes at the eagerness in his friend to return to his wife.

He looked back to Athos.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

His friend raised a brow.

"Sure you are," Porthos nodded, "C'mon then d'Artagnan, let's get something to eat,"

The sun was hanging low in the sky by the time the two of them rode into the garrison. The smell of fresh bread lingered in the courtyard where the cadets were cleaning up the space after a day of practice. Porthos watched the young ones as they worked together, dragging back the target posts, collecting practice swords and carrying off hay bales that had been pulled out as makeshift seats and brushing away the straw used to soften the ground under hand to hand combat practice.

Another life, another time flashed before his eyes. The smugness at the fear in his rival's eyes as he had grabbed the fist that connected with his shoulder, the thrill of his own strength as he had flipped the man and tossed him over the shoulder, the pull of his grin as he had turned to regard his brothers, the pride in Aramis' eyes when they had met his own.

Porthos pulled his horse to a stop a little harsher than necessary. His horse reared a bit and he soothed it, muttering apologies.

"Whoa, whoa, what happened?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I'm just hungry,"

D'Artagnan laughed but it was drowned out by the clatter of hooves that echoed through the garrison. Porthos looked past his friend at the Red Guards that had scattered into their yard before he glanced at the nearest cadet. Ordered him to get Athos and dismounted to meet this enemy in their home.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"We are looking for a murderer," Captain Marcheaux announced, "a murderess actually,"

"And you think you will find her here?" Porthos raised a brow, "that's a pathetic excuse even for you,"

"I saw him take her, I saw him take my fiancé," a long faced man said from atop his horse, "he must have brought her here,"

"What are you talking about?" d'Artagnan asked.

But Porthos was frowning at the man, it took him a second to realize that he was looking at the nobleman who had been about to marry Aramis' friend. His frown deepened because that meant the woman they were looking for was – Porthos cursed under his breath, he had no doubt Aramis would have helped her escape whether she was guilty or not.

"What's going on here?" Constance demanded, "Why are the Red Guards tossing about the clean beddings?"

"They think we're harboring a murderess," d'Artagnan said.

"And why would we?" she snapped.

And yet Porthos had not missed the fear that had flashed across her face. Her glare that travelled over the red cloaked figures going in and out of the rooms held a touch of apprehension. And it did nothing to calm the fury against the man who had returned to them. His fists clenched at his side as the rage simmering under his skin threatened to sweep out over the trouble the man had brought to their doorsteps again.

"She isn't here Captain," a Red Guard announced.

"We didn't find her," another reported.

"Well then," Marcheaux nodded, "it seems this Musketeer Aramis had escaped with her; unless he is here?"

Porthos bit back a growl, it wouldn't be the first time that man may have gone off with a damsel in distress. His silence simply confirmed the suspicions of the Red Guard's Captain who smirked and ordered them to hand over the Musketeer should they come across him. And as the swarm of Red Guards rode out of the garrison Porthos wondered if that was where Aramis had ridden off to, to accompany the woman somewhere out of Paris, riding off with his new love. How he wished he could wring that idiot's neck.

He rounded on Constance who looked confused over something.

"I'd say she was supposed to be here," he said, "but you don't know where she's gone."

It was not a question, not since he knew the answer already.

* * *

The door was open, he still knocked.

The Minister looked up from the parchment on his desk and Aramis stepped in. Walking up to the desk he plucked his hat off his head as Treville sat back and crossed his arms before him. The blue eyes narrowed and Aramis met the scrutiny head on. The snide remarks, the not-so-friendly jibes, the glares and the judgments he had taken it all in these past days; he could take some more of them from his old Captain too.

Aramis stood straighter, shoulders drawing back.

Treville's eyes narrowed before he looked away.

And pulling out a drawer in his desk, he silently reached inside. Straightening back he plunked the heavy purse on the table. It was what Aramis had come to him for before he had went out to meet his friends collecting the money of the Queen's jewels. It was what he had come to collect this evening, that and the letter Treville set beside it.

With a nod Aramis picked up the heavy velvet pouch, the chink of the coins inside subdued by their large number as he placed it in his belt and reached for the letter.

"Two thousand livres," Treville said.

"Thank you," he replied.

And turned to leave with the payment of the four years of his not-official-service to the crown. He had left the money with Treville, having no use of it himself,but the Minister had written to him on every payday that his funds were safe with him. Aramis had no doubt he would receive it when he had come to his old Captain with the request that morning.

"What do you need it for?"

The question halted his steps and he turned, a smirk playing at his lips.

"To help an old friend escape the charges of murder," Aramis said.

"And is this friend guilty of it?"

"Yes,"

Treville got to his feet, a huff escaping from between his teeth as he went to the cabinet by the wall behind him. Aramis turned around fully and stepped up to the chair by the desk, hooked it back with the toe of his boot and sat down, plopping his hat on the table. His former Captain set a decanter beside it and taking his seat poured the wine in the glasses he had brought back as well. Aramis didn't need an invitation to reach for one but when his fingers wrapped around the small smooth container he looked to the Minister; the man despite everything he respected the most.

He raised his glass in a silent salute before downing its contents.

Setting it down, he waited until Treville had refilled his freshly emptied cup.

"What's eating away at you then?" Aramis asked.

"I could ask you the same question,"

Aramis felt a smirk tip up his lips as he sat back, watched the carefully blank face of the man who had made him who was today; the good and the bad. There was a long of stretch of a grounding trust between them and a pit of ruthless betrayal too, they had fought back to back and face to face and somehow always stood shoulder to shoulder. Nothing like with the men he called his brothers Aramis mused. He traced the rim of the glass set before him with the tip of his finger and raised a brow.

"It's that bad?" he asked.

An unimpressed blue glare met him.

"You're redirecting Minister," he shrugged a shoulder, "something has to be that bad for you to do so,"

"Secrets are a heavy burden,"

"I wouldn't know," Aramis grinned.

"Of course you wouldn't," Treville smirked.

A chuckle escaped him and even Treville smiled. But there was a shadow cast over it; a worry in the former Captain's eyes that held something else too, something that Aramis was shocked to witness. His brows shot up as his head tilted a little to the side.

"What has you scared Jean?" he asked.

Sharp blue eyes widened slightly before the Minister glanced away. Reached for his glass and drained it before setting it down carefully though his grasp didn't recede. He stared in its empty depths with his brows pulled together in a frown and when he looked up he was a man grown old right before Aramis' eyes.

"The governor?" the younger man asked.

"He would like to think so," Treville snorted, rubbed a hand down his face, "but no. And yet the crown is under threat as well as the head that wears it,"

"You've always protected both," the conviction in Aramis' voice was not a lie.

The Minister's gaze traveled over his face before he pulled it away and picked up the decanter. Aramis could feel the strain of the burden the man carried as the older man poured himself another drink. And yet he knew he could not share this burden, could not ask the man to reveal what was not his to be said.

"I watched one King fall and practically raised another," Treville said, "watched him stumble and learn; guided him even as I served him. It's an odd position to be in."

Aramis nodded, he had seen the man maneuver the fine lines. To protect, to teach and to serve as the web of court politics tangled and pulled at their King. Simply put, he knew that Treville had in a way raised the child destined to rule them.

"None could have done it better than you,"

"No?" Treville raised a brow, "maybe not," he shrugged and pointed a finger at him, "But I've taught you well, taught you the longest most likely so perhaps you could strike a balance like that too. And yet after all that I've taught you it seems that you are intent upon throwing it away."

Aramis glanced at the letter he had set beside his hat on the desk. The spiral seal keeping his orders secret from him for now. He had asked the Minister for a return to the front lines as well as the previous payment and the man had promised his orders come evening. Aramis knew the dance by now, he could not open the letter until he had reached 'Les Routes Perdues' and even then he could do so only if he was sure that he would take up the orders that the letter carried.

"Are you sure about it Rene?" Treville asked.

Aramis wiped a hand down his face and smoothed out a grimace before it could reach his features; the seizing pain in his back receded as he held still and he dared not tempt it by shifting his weight where he sat. He had realized long before he had returned to Paris that the repeatedly occurring pain was not because of the canning but because of the rack, the constant pull on his muscles that had been left in that state for who knows how long at a time had left him with bouts of cutting pain every time he moved around more than he should.

But that pain was not what had made this decision for him; that pain he could manage; could live with, would live with as he served on the frontlines again. It was the burn of frayed ends where he had cut off his old bonds that ate away just a bit more at his reserves with every spark he met; a flaring occurrence that happened a number of times in one day.

Aramis remembered Athos cocking the pistol aimed his way, remembered Porthos' disgust as he turned away from him when Aramis once more found himself standing opposite to his three brothers, the cutting slide of d'Artagnan's gaze as he had handed the diamond to Athos. And then there was the Queen, the Dauphin...

" _When I returned to Paris, it felt like four years had passed in a moment. And now, it feels like forever;" he smiles, "He's big. He's grown so tall."_

" _Why are you here?"_

" _To stand witness against the Duke of Orleans."_

" _Then do so," her eyes are cold._

Aramis could not fault her in that, even when a part of him raged at the unfairness that she could be a parent to their child while he was nothing he still could not find it in him to blame her for shunning him. Not after what had almost happened four years ago. Still he had hoped he could sometimes glimpse the child from a distance while he lived in the company of his brothers.

Aramis reached out and picked up his glass of wine.

"I'm chasing ghosts here," he said.

Drank the wine and reached for more, filling up his glass and his former Captain's. The silence between them lay heavy but it was not uncomfortable. Aramis let it sink into his bones, let it fill up the space between his ribs and watched the older man before him relax slightly, witnessed those taut shoulders of a longtime soldier loosening just a touch.

"They cannot know," Treville said, "that was the one condition of your return to the Musketeers,"

And once he it had bothered him when the Minister had held him back in the office and laid out the rules upon his arrival to Paris.

"I'm aware of that," he nodded, frowned slightly, "I'm not sure I even want them to know now,"

Because where would he even start.

Because why would it even matter.

Aramis shook his head as a dry chuckle scratched past his throat; so many secrets, so many lies and so little words to explain it all. Silence was his only refuge; a quiet leave was his only way out. He had told himself upon his return to Paris that he could take all that his brothers sent his way, had promised himself to work hard and earn back what he had lost. He would stand the trial and the torment if he could somehow find a place among his brothers again. Had imagined the chance for that as a part of some grand plan that had held him back at monastery when his people had departed; hoped that it was a sign that he could gain what he had lost.

" _Four years is a long time, we learned to live without you,"_

And maybe it was a good thing that they had; because he could not, he would not be a torture for the men he saw as his friends, he would not be their suffering, their penance.

"Time moves on Minister," he said, "it is time I did as well,"

He picked up his glass, tapped it once against the former Captain's beside it and downed its contents without waiting for the man to follow. Aramis pushed to his feet and placing his hat back on his head he put the letter inside his doublet. The sound of his boots on the marble floor was the only noise of his departure.

* * *

 **TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

The panicked young cadet had not been a good sign.

The ransacked garrison was worse still.

Athos watched his men go about setting things back to order that the Red Guards had left skewed in their wake and his grip on the balustrade tightened. Knuckles drawing white as he bit back the anger at having his regiment's reputation brought to question; and all for another one of Aramis' mistresses. He should have known, should have expected it even. It was after all the way their lives were, Aramis falling for one woman or another and all of them suffering for it. His gaze traveled over the yard as the afternoon waned and his gaze stopped onto the figure that walked in through the arched entrance.

"Aramis!" he called.

Watched the man look up at the balcony and ordered him up to his office with a jerk of his head. Athos did not stay to wait for him to climb up the stairs; instead he went inside the room where others were already awaiting him. His arrival had them looking up and he simply nodded to announce that the man they had been waiting for had returned.

Athos took a seat behind the Captain's desk.

He looked up as all eyes turned to the open door where Aramis had come to a stop. Noticed the way the man at the threshold looked at the two Musketeers sitting in the chairs by the Captain's desk before his gaze flicked to the only woman in the room who was perched on the corner of the desk. Constance stood up at the sight of him.

"I'm sorry Aramis," she said.

"Not your fault," his smile was gentle.

"You don't understand, you asked me to keep her here but I left her for a minute and she was gone,"

"A good thing too or the Red Guards would have found her here," d'Artagnan spoke up, eager to defend his wife who gave him a scathing look for his efforts.

Athos watched the man in the doorway frown slightly before he stepped in and closed the door after him. It was just as well, there was no need for the rest of the garrison to listen to this. And yet Athos felt unsettled, because it was the act of a man who knew something about command, about the need to keep the conflicts within a company private lest it led to more discord among the men. Athos raised a brow at his own musings. His mind flashed to the moment Claremont had come to them with d'Artagnan's message from Saint Antoine, his thoughts lingered on how Aramis had easily slipped on the mantle of leadership at the threat to one of their own.

Athos sat back, blue eyes fixed on the man who stepped up and closer to the middle of the room.

"I didn't think they would be so quick about it," Aramis said.

"You didn't think that is all," Athos countered.

"Or you thought from below the waist as usual," Porthos added.

"What did you even intend to do?" d'Artagnan frowned, "Get married and ride off into the sunset?"

Constance smacked him hard on the shoulder. Their youngest hissed but the words on his lips were silenced by the glare from his wife. Athos would have smiled if not for the problem standing before them. He arched a brow in a prompt for the man to talk, it seemed these days Aramis remained silent most of the time they were together when once he had been talkative enough to carry a conversation with his horse. Athos wondered if this new quiet about him was a monk thing.

"You brought your troubles to our doorstep," Athos said, "put the reputation of the entire regiment at risk when we are already in a precarious position with the King."

He wanted to add that he never told them anything about his friend Pauline but held back, for the notion to be affronted by that seemed too forward all of a sudden. But that thought vanished as something flickered in the dark eyes that met his gaze, something that reminded him of an overcast day years ago.

" _I don't believe Treville is guilty and I never will, but we won't stand in your way. Do what you have to do..."_

A chill went down the Captain's spine. A remnant of the cold rain that day, of confrontations, of death, of lines drawn where there should be none. Of something in his friend's eyes at the words he had uttered in that street.

" _We heard accusations, not proof."_

" _Then we'll find proof."_

" _There's no "we" here."_

Athos refused to acknowledge something similar to what had been in Aramis' eyes that day flash again in his gaze as he looked slowly from one man to the other in the room. But then it was lost in the folds of emotions that swept in those dark eyes and Aramis' shoulders straightened before he tipped his hat slightly in acknowledgment.

"I shall endeavor to remove the stain of my sins from your threshold," he said.

With a smile that was an edge of the blade; a gleaming, honed, swift blade.

"What are you going to do?" it slipped out past his lips before Athos could stop it.

He hadn't been able to hide the touch of apprehension his voice had carried and refused to look at Porthos and d'Artagnan who glanced his way. But Aramis simply shrugged a shoulder, dark eyes giving away no clue.

"Nothing that would tarnish the regiment's reputation if I can help it," he said, "now am I allowed to look for Pauline or will you be handing me over to the Red Guards before that?"

Athos stared, so did the other three.

"I'm sure I'm implicated in the matter since the search of the garrison was involved," Aramis said, "Her fiancé did see me ride out with her,"

It irked him that the man had understood the situation and more so that he neither offered explanations nor asked for them. There was a resigned air about him that hadn't been there since his return, or maybe it was and Athos mused he hadn't simply noticed it before. Somewhere at the back of his mind it nibbled at his thoughts that Aramis had so easily accepted that they would give him up to the Red Guards. He was about to order the man to inform them of his next move when a pistol shot cracked the air.

* * *

He had followed the Captain to the balcony when the shot sounded.

He had been up there with him when he saw her stumble through the gate.

He had no idea how he reached her.

But she was there, in his arms as she stumbled nearer and his knees hit the earth to lower her to the ground. One arm wrapped around her shoulders as his other hand pressed onto the bleeding wound in her side. Her sniffles and whimpering pressed into the collar of his doublet as her head rolled on his shoulder. Aramis pressed his lips to the sweat soaked hairline.

He had no platitudes to offer.

Had lost them somewhere in the burning villages, among the orphaned faces and the bloody battlefields. Instead he held her closer; pressed harder onto the wound where she had been shot just below her ribs although he knew his efforts would do nothing to save her.

"She was escaping arrest!" someone shouted.

"Well she's not going anywhere now!" snapped a woman's voice.

Aramis glanced up to find Constance's back to him. She had stopped the Red Guard from coming forward. He looked back down when the woman in his grasp whimpered again, a bloodstained hand clutching at his sleeve.

"I'm glad – we met again before –" she trembled, "before it ends,"

"Me too,"

Her glassy eyes met his and a faint smile curled on her lips.

"Would – have looked nice," she murmured, her breath light, "– you walking me down the aisle."

He smiled too.

Imagined the fantasy she had woven for herself, of her triumph to finally burry her past. He smiled even as her breath caught and didn't return, her eyes growing vacant in their stare. And then he simply pulled her closer, buried his face in her hair and felt his shoulders bow down at another loss.

" _I'm sorry old friend,"_

His breath hitched. How many more friends was he to burry he wondered, how many phantoms were to follow him until he found his way under the earth too. Aramis gulped down the scream that blossomed from his chest, refused to let it past his lips. He pulled away slightly and closed the blank blue eyes. Frowned when his fingers left red trails on her face...

" _Pauline means more to me than you could possibly imagine. I will protect her."_

There was movement about him but Aramis found no interest in it, until a strong grip on his wrist caught his attention. He looked down at the slim hand that held him and followed the arm up to the face. Dark blue eyes and dark red curls, a face softened in his grief and a gaze offering something that hadn't been offered to him ever since his return to Paris.

He nodded, silently thanking her for that unnamed gift her eyes bestowed him with.

"I have to –" he stopped, cleared his throat, "she'll get a proper burial,"

"She will," Constance nodded.

Squeezed his wrist one more time before she stood up and left in a rustle of cotton and leather. He looked back down at the still form of his childhood friend and tried not to think about the times they had played hide and go seek in the room bellow the roof when their Mamans were at work. Forced himself to not listen to the high pitched giggles that rang in his ears and he wondered not for the first time what had happened to the rest of the children, the older ones and the younger ones, wondered if they had lived, if they had escaped. But he knew down that road was nothing but an aching chasm of loss and silent tears of the boy staring out the carriage window to somehow burn the face of his mother into his memory.

Blinking away the blur from his sight Aramis gathered up the limp form in his arms and walked out of the garrison.

He had carried her halfway down the street when the sound of his name being called broke through the haze in his mind. He stopped to look over his shoulder and there was Constance again. She had brought the garrison's wagon with her.

"You can sit with her in the back," she said from the driver's seat.

So Aramis did; settled with his friend's head on his knee and hand on her forehead as the wagon lurched into motion again. He hardly noticed the streets they traveled through until they reached the funeral home. A haze settled in his senses, like an old blanket damp from past grief and threadbare from use. There was a service and a burial, somewhere along the way Constance left his side and when Aramis came to himself night had set in. He paused in his wanderings and looked up and down the street he had come to be in, shook off the webbings around his mind just as he had done years ago on the rainy night he had lost Marsac. Drawing a hand through his hair he let go a breath and cleaned away the last remains of the familiar daze, it said something about his life when the pain of loss was an old acquaintance Aramis mused.

And walked down the street he was in, trying to make out where he was. Paris had changed a lot in his absence and the night time wasn't helping. There was also the fact that he hadn't been out and about much since his return. His thoughts were interrupted by the loud, horrendous sound pretending to be a song from up ahead. Aramis slowed his steps and watched the stumbling men ahead of him. He glanced at the door they had staggered out of and found the entrance to the tavern.

As he stepped into the establishment a distant part of his mind reminded him about the need to eat.

He ordered a bottle of wine instead.

It was four cups later when a shadow fell across the table he had commandeered. Aramis set down his drink and looked up, ready to answer the call of violence that was looming in his view. It was more than one man that stood staring back at him.

And Aramis smiled.

* * *

The rustle of her dress and the tapping of her boots were starting to put him on the edge.

He glanced at the two men before looking back at his wife. D'Artagnan opened his mouth to ask her to relax for the eighteenth time but the glare she sent him stopped him short. He sat back in his chair with a huff. Watched Porthos as the big man shifted where he sat as he clearly gathered the courage to speak.

"I should have stayed with him," Constance spoke up instead, "shouldn't have left him alone,"

"Aramis is a grown man, he doesn't need his hand being held," Athos said.

"That's true," d'Artagnan nodded.

Constance stopped in her trek and rounded on them. The fierce look in her eyes pinned him to his seat much like a nail hammered home. The young man glanced at his Captain, who was at least barricaded behind the desk while he was out there facing direct fire.

"He lost an old friend, shouldn't his new ones be by his side?" asked the woman.

"Too bad there aren't any new ones here," Porthos muttered, "not even old ones really,"

"What did you say?" Constance snapped.

The big man shrugged, the light from the lanterns in the Captain's office dancing on the metal pieces in his uniform that shifted with his movement. D'Artagnan wondered for the first time if that uniform was comfortable for his friend and found himself imagining the man in his old one. The less grand uniform with the metal studs and worn leather, but it somehow didn't fit on the man before him. That Porthos was not this one, that Porthos laughed, grinned and thumped him on the back in a gesture both reassuring and proud.

"It's not like we don't know what it feels like to lose a friend," Porthos said, "We've lost plenty in the past years, buried enough to fill up fields and where was he? Tucked away safe with his brothers,"

D'Artagnan flinched.

The way that last word had been spit out made him want to never to be associated with it.

"What he is trying to say," Athos spoke up before Constance could reply, "Is that Aramis tends to disappear at times like these, there is no need for you to worry. He will turn up in the morning."

"He did the last time too," d'Artagnan nodded, "with Marsac –"

"So he disappeared into the night then too?" Constance cut him off.

Three heads bobbed in agreement.

"Went to bury him on his own and then vanished for the night?"

Again they all nodded.

"And none of you went after him?"

D'Artagnan stopped mid-nod. His eyes widened slightly as he looked to his friends and found them both frowning. He hadn't went to look for Aramis then, had followed the lead of these two, content in believing that if they didn't do it then it clearly wasn't needed. His thoughts went back to earlier in the morning, when they had first come across Aramis' friend...

" _One day, you will write your memoirs and there will be a woman's name on every page,"_

He had missed it then.

Overlooked it in his glee at finding yet another of Aramis' lovers but there had been something different about the way the man had looked at her. There had been a softening in his eyes, a near wet gleam that spoke nothing of romance but of looking upon a face that had long vanished from one's life.

"He loved her," d'Artagnan said.

"That's the problem, Aramis loves everything in a dress," Porthos snorted.

Constance turned away from the window, her face drawn in grim lines and eyes gleaming with unshed wetness. She shook her head slightly before glancing back out, one hand clenching into a fist as she looked out into the darkness, biting on her lip as if attempting to button close the words that wanted to spill out.

"But he loved her like he loves me;" she said, "Like a sister, like family. They'd grown up together until he –"

Constance stopped short. She glanced at the three of them and shrugged; looked away with her mouth pursed close.

"Until?" Athos prompted.

"Not my story to tell,"

"Sure, more secrets he's keeping from us. Nothing surprising there," Porthos scoffed.

And d'Artagnan glanced up to find the big man rolling his eyes while their Captain seemed amused. But he couldn't help but feel the truth in his wife's words, her insistence that shed a new light upon the recent events.

" _So? Come on, that woman. Who was she?"_

" _Someone from the first page,"_

Rubbing at his eyes the young man pushed to his feet. He met the confused looks the other two sent his way and squared his shoulders. He had been nearer to Aramis when Pauline had died so he had heard her last words to him even though they only registered to him now. His wife was right about everything as usual. D'Artagnan grinned to himself and stepping closer to Constance planted a kiss on her lips. Forced himself back up before he could get carried away and smiled at the slightly dazed confusion he saw in her eyes.

"Thank you," he said.

"What?"

He squeezed her hand and brought it up for a kiss to her knuckles just because.

And then he turned to his surprised friends.

"I'm going out to look for him," he said.

Turned around and walked out without waiting for their reply. He respected them more than he probably even respected the King, he loved them like brothers more than he could love any distant blood relatives he had had left, but he was his own man. He was no longer the naïve farm boy from Gascony looking to his more experienced friends for guidance; he was a seasoned soldier who made his own decisions. And yes Aramis had abandoned them, and yes a part of him was enraged at him for the pain he had caused the two men he had just left in the Captain's office but for the first time in many years d'Artagnan remembered the tug at his collar and the furious dark eyes he had witnessed in the Court of Miracles ages ago...

" _Look, Porthos was drunk." he reasons, "I'm sure it was an accident, but what if he's guilty?"_

 _Aramis' anger is a living thing as he collars him,_

" _This is Porthos," he growls._

That man had defended a friend not present to defend himself, a friend who according to all the proof at hand was a murderer. That was the Aramis they had forgotten about, in their bitterness that was the man they refused to see now. And as much as he loved his two brothers d'Artagnan realized he could not be simply following their footsteps into negligence like he had done when Marsac had died.

"d'Artagnan!"

He stopped and turned around, a smirk on his lips as he arched a brow at his Captain. In what little light the street afforded them he found Porthos trailing after him too.

"If he's passed out drunk somewhere it would take two men to drag him back," Athos said.

"Or just one," d'Artagnan glanced at Porthos.

"I'm only coming to keep an eye on you two," said the big man, "streets aren't safe for Musketeers as they used to be."

And that thought remained with d'Artagnan as they walked from one tavern to another, spurred him to move faster when they didn't find Aramis in any of them and drove home the obviousness of it whenever they encounter the scowling citizens, the children darting away from them and men snarling at the sight of the three men in Musketeers uniform. He was starting to worry that they might find the man they were looking for not in any establishment but beaten up in some dank corner of the city. D'Artagnan suppressed the shudder at the sudden thought of his old friend's demise.

It was well past midnight when he walked into the tavern on the edge of Paris; one filled with snoozing drunks at this hour of the night as he looked about the yellow lit taproom. His gaze reached the far corner and stopped, his friends nearly ran into him when his feet did the same.

Whatever d'Artagnan had been expecting to find it was not what the sight that greeted him.

There was Aramis, sitting at the table with three men who had their backs to d'Artagnan. But that was not what surprised him as much as the way his old friend was sitting back, the easy flow of his hand as he said something, the relaxed lines of his posture and the small smile on his lips; a tiny, genuine thing he hadn't seen even when the man had returned to them.

"I stand corrected," Athos said, "no hand holding necessary,"

"Who are they?" d'Artagnan asked.

Didn't wait for the reply as he walked on ahead, his curiosity piqued as something lighthearted of his old self stirred in him. He stopped behind one of the men as Aramis' eyes looked up to meet his own; a number of emotions raced through them before they were shuttered behind a happiness as fake as a young cadet's confidence, and just as brash.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis smiled wide, "and the Captain and Porthos too!"

Had his smiles been this fake ever since he had returned d'Artagnan wondered, had he just not noticed it before?

"Aramis," Athos said, "it seems you have all the company you need,"

"Old friends from my years away,"

"Should have known," Porthos shook his head.

D'Artagnan frowned at the 'old friends' that hadn't even turned to regard the three of them. The trio instead sat drinking quietly, their backs to them as they looked to Aramis. While the man in question opened his arms wide and shrugged.

"What can I say, I'm prone to popularity," he said, "would you be staying for a drink?"

"We'll find somewhere else," Porthos said.

"Of course," he nodded.

And Aramis sat down, pulled his chair forwards and poured a drink in the pewter cup before him, his eyes shifting from them to the men sitting before him. D'Artagnan realized a second too late what the easy acceptance of his own words had sparked in Porthos. He reached out to grasp the man's shoulder just as the big man stepped ahead, rounded the table and grabbing Aramis by the collar of his doublet hauled him up to his feet.

Chairs screeched, someone grabbed d'Artagnan's arm and shoved him back just as another figure wrenched Porthos off of Aramis and landed a fist to the big man's jaw.

It was more surprise than anything else that left d'Artagnan staggering; he had just enough time to register Porthos' growl before the man straightened and lunged forward. Only to stop short abruptly. Blinking rapidly d'Artagnan stepped forward to see three pistols aimed their way. His own weapon was out in an instance and from the corner of his eye he saw his friends do the same. The three of them faced the three Aramis had been drinking with and d'Artagnan noticed that the man himself had been pushed back, behind the three pistol wielding men who were watching the Musketeers with thinly veiled anger.

"You can shoot and six lives can end here tonight," one of the younger ones smirked.

"But we can assure _he_ ," the other younger one tilted his head towards Aramis, "will not be one of them."

An exasperated sigh followed that statement. And d'Artagnan glanced at Aramis who was shaking his head slightly from where he had been forced behind the older, narrow faced man. D'Artagnan frowned; he had seen this face, a long time ago in a haze of cold on a mountain trail.

"Step aside Mousequeton," Aramis said.

The older man shifted slightly, his pistol didn't waver as he moved just a little to the side and his eyes remained fixed on the Musketeers before him.

"Did I mumble?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened slightly, soft though the words were still there was an edge to Aramis' voice; a quiet authority that had the three men before him stiffening. The man named Mousequeton stepped more to the side and Aramis walked through to stop between the younger men.

"Lads," he said.

"Captain," they nodded, eyes not leaving the three Musketeers before them.

"Weapons down,"

And the pistols were lowered, although they remained in hand. D'Artagnan glanced at the third man who was still aiming at them before Aramis looked back to him as well. His silent order sent the third weapon down too. It was only then that d'Artagnan placed his own pistol back in his belt and echoed an expletive that Constance would have slapped him for.

"What," he looked to Aramis, "is going on here?"

"A misunderstanding," he replied, "one that should not have happened,"

"He started it," the curly haired fellow who had spoken first glared at Porthos.

"Planchet's right," the other young one nodded, "we weren't going to just sit there and watch him beat you up,"

Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head slowly; d'Artagnan was suddenly reminded of his father standing before him after one of his more wild adventures in his childhood.

"He wasn't going to beat me up," Aramis said, "and if he was that's not something you have to step in,"

The mutinous look that passed among the three men nearly left d'Artagnan grinning. It was clear what they thought of that decision. Aramis eyed them with a resigned sigh of a man who knew that he had to choose his battles wisely. He looked back to d'Artagnan and the younger man didn't miss the way he was avoiding looking at Athos and Porthos.

"We should get going," Aramis said.

"You will not introduce us to your friends?" Athos asked.

"Of course," Aramis nodded, "Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan meet Mousequeton, Planchet and Bazin. Now they have an early morning departure, so a few hours of sleep before that would be great. We will be turning in for the night gentlemen."

The three of them nodded and moved to where the Musketeers stood, blocking the route to the door. D'Artagnan didn't move away and the other two weren't giving ground either. He watched the studying look the three were giving them and d'Artagnan smirked lightly as the 'old friends' from Aramis' years away shifted a little closer to the man, almost as if readying for another attack on him. He knew that Aramis was trying to deflect whatever secret it was that was brimming before their eyes but he could not ignore the way the men were closing ranks around him, like soldiers used to fighting side by side.

"They called you Captain," he pointed out.

"Because he is," Bazin muttered.

"Since when?" Porthos growled.

The big man, who hadn't spoken since his flare of anger snagged Aramis' attention and held it. D'Artagnan watched Aramis' lips part to speak but no sound slipped past them. The words were clearly locked away somewhere tight and for the first time since they had been reunited d'Artagnan felt a need to reach out and grasp the man by the shoulder, to offer him what he sorely needed; friendship, support, understanding. From the corner of his eye he saw Athos taking a step closer to his old friend but stopped short, as if unsure. Aramis looked to the Captain of the Musketeers who had come nearer before glancing at d'Artagnan.

"It's reference to a joke," Aramis said at last, "a long jest I might share with you one day,"

With that Aramis walked past them while the blatant lie hung over the Musketeers as a testament of the man's secrets. Mousequeton, Planchet and Bazin followed after him.

* * *

He had never expected to see them again when they had left Douai. He had never dreamed of meeting them in Paris and he had never imagined a time when he would be very literally standing between the three from his years of war and the three that had filled his years before that.

Aramis walked out of the tavern with Mousequeton, Planchet and Bazin at his heels. He knew he had left more questions behind him, was aware of the disappointment from his Musketeer friends that followed his every step like a stain stuck to the sole of his boots. But for a while back in that tavern it had not been there at the forefront of his mind; for the first time since he had faced that cutting displeasure in the monastery at Douai it had been pushed back from his thoughts when the three who were following him had appeared at his table.

A particularly vicious spasm traveled across his back and Aramis stumbled a little, threw out an arm to grasp the wooden pillar outside someone's door and stilled. Leaned forwards a bit and breathed as calmly as he could, his head dropping between his rigid shoulders as the muscles in his back bunched up in protest to the constant abuse they had been taking.

He was not expecting the hand on his shoulder.

Bazin pulled his hand away from the pillar and tucked it between them as his own arm went around the older man's back, pulling him close to his side. Aramis had forgotten that these three knew of his injuries and knew how to cope with them; had the knowledge like the one that told them that they shouldn't pull his arm over their neck to help him walk, not if they didn't want him throwing up on their boots from the pain.

"I can manage," Aramis said.

He could, he would, always.

"I want to help,"

And it wasn't fair how the simple statement melted any resolve he had. Aramis leaned onto his young friend and let him take some of his weight, his back as if understanding that it had been acknowledged sent another stab of pain that had him sucking in a harsh breath and clenching his eyes shut. When he opened his eyes it was to see Mousequeton before him.

"We have secured rooms at an Inn not far from here," he said.

"I'm going ahead to get a hot bath ready," Planchet said from beside him, "it will work,"

Aramis knew it would, heat had helped in the past as they all were aware and yet the thought of that comfort brought a sudden lump up in his throat. He had barely managed a nod before Planchet was hurrying away. They followed after him at a slower pace, with Bazin gently urging him on from one side while Mousequeton hovered by his other shoulder, ready to catch him should he stumble again. A part of him felt irked by this unnecessary vigilance and the other part of him was mortified. But Aramis could not deny that this night at least he needed an act of kindness. How chance had bestowed him with friendly faces when he needed them the most he chose not to dwell on it but sent a silent prayer of thanks just as they reached the Inn.

The rooms were upstairs and the staircase was narrow.

It was not a task beyond his ability.

Aramis stepped away from Bazin as they took to the stairs and when the next wrenching pain rolled and twitched in his back he grasped the railing and moved on. By the time he had entered the room where the bathtub had been placed Aramis was sweating lightly. Wiping at his forehead with his sleeve he plucked his hat off his head and deposited it on the bed.

The room was brightly lit and warm, warmer still because of the steam that was rising in swirls from the bathtub.

"Is there any new damage we should know about?" Mousequeton asked.

"Nothing new," he smiled.

"So something old that we're used to?" Bazin raised a brow, "Stab wounds? Musket shots?"

Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Nothing as dramatic," he said.

"Oh cuts and bruises then," Planchet grinned, "though Bazin here would know how dramatic they can be,"

"I wasn't being dramatic, it hurt you beanpole of a bungler!" Bazin snapped.

And smacked his friend on the head.

Aramis sidestepped the tussle that started as he unbuckled his weapon's belt, unwound the blue sash under it and opened the straps of his doublet, before he carefully shrugged out of it even as he kept an eye on flailing limbs and loud cursing. He glanced at Mousequeton who had brought a chair closer to the bathtub and was placing towels on the backrest. The older man caught his look and smirked.

"This idiot wrestled an escaping goat and got kicked in the head," he said.

Aramis winced in sympathy and reached out to grab the nearest collar. It turned out to be Planchet's and he tugged him off of Bazin, pulled the slightly dazed younger man up before grasping his chin and turning his face to the side. The scar was pink, just by his hairline and spoke of a wound that would have bled heavily.

"There was too much blood," Planchet muttered as if reading his thoughts.

"Looks like it," Aramis nodded and let go, resting his hand on Bazin's shoulder instead, "next time stick to chasing chickens," he said.

"At least we got good meat from that monster," Mousequeton shrugged.

"You said that was not Snowbreath!"

"It wasn't," Planchet assured him, "it wasn't! Are you telling me you don't recognize the love of your life you've been doting on for ages?"

Aramis tried to look disapproving at Mousequeton's grin and found himself failing at that. But his smile turned into a grimace as he un-tucked his shirt. Every bruise that he had collected during sword practice with his old friends was making itself known in a cruel symphony.

"Let's see the damage," Mousequeton was suddenly before him.

"Its fine, bruises only,"

"Then you won't mind us confirming," Bazin shrugged.

With a resigned sigh Aramis pulled off the shirt with much more stiffness than he would have liked. The silence that followed was thrumming with quiet anger and he glanced down at himself to see the familiar dark blue, green and yellow stains across his skin. Aramis looked up from the tokens of the practice sessions with his friends and saw the grim promise of violence in the three gazes he was the center of; a promise of retribution was loud in their silence. Aramis shook his head slightly, even if they didn't know who was responsible – something he planned to keep that way – he still didn't like the idea of them ever being pitted against his old friends. He was about to speak, to calm the murderous rage staining the air when the door to the room was thrown open.

It was simply instinct that four pistols aimed at the intruders.

Three pair of eyes stared back.

The draft from the open doorway felt cool on his skin and Aramis shivered slightly. Realizing who the men at the door were he tossed his weapon onto the bed with the shake of his head. Mousequeton snapped something about shutting the damn door and from the corner of his eye he saw Planchet hurry to do so. But Aramis' gaze flicked back to the three Musketeers that had stepped into the room.

He was not turned fully their way, not yet and still they stared. Eyes rounding and something almost like disbelief in their gaze that lingered on what they could see of his back. It was odd Aramis decided that the canning marks they were seeing on his back were the ones that weren't even that painful anymore. But if he turned, Aramis clenched his jaw shut; he could not let them see the secrets collected in scars on his skin, each with a story of its own, with some tales they just might recognize.

" _So many lies, Pauline. Would it be so bad if you told St Pierre the truth? Why build a wall of lies between you and those you love?"_

And a wave of exhaustion crashed into him; powerful and reckless and Aramis decided that he was just done with it. Though none else in the room knew he was certain of leaving come morning, his silence was the price of staying with the Musketeers but he would be leaving the regiment in a few hours anyway. So he turned fully around, let them see the wounds new and old, forced himself to stand firm as the weight of their gazes hit him.

The confusion, the anger, the shock.

Thick in the silence that drowned them.

"What –?" Athos' voice was hoarse, gaze lingering on the stain of new bruises even as it went back to the old scars on his skin, "how –?"

"Ask Treville," Aramis said.

"We're asking you," Porthos nearly growled.

Took a step forwards before a soft twang stopped him in his path. The hilt of the dagger still trembled lightly where it had struck point first in the floor before the big man's feet. There was a sound of pistol cocking and Aramis, recognizing the dagger, glanced at Bazin.

"Don't make me go against the Captain's orders," Bazin said.

"Us," Planchet corrected, his pistol held raised and steady.

"Now get out," Mousequeton tipped his head towards the door.

This time Aramis didn't order down the three weapons, there was no need. He watched his old friends turn around and file out the door. As it closed after them with a quiet snick Aramis sat down on the bed behind him.

* * *

 **Thank you everyone who read, follow, favorite and reviewed this story. Thank you guest reviewers, Thimblerig, Greenfern, Jmp and Debbie; it is great to hear your thoughts on the chapter, THANK YOU so much for taking the time to do so.**

 **TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

There was a thundering in his ears.

His blood pounding too fast and too hard in his veins as if he was standing in a battlefield. He could not shake off the sight of Aramis stumbling in the street, of his rigid stance and head hanging low under some phantom pain. One of them, one of _those_ three had helped him, pulled him close in a support that they shouldn't have the right to offer. They didn't - no one - no one except for him, Athos and d'Artagnan deserved that prerogative. They alone held the privilege to see Aramis that vulnerable. Porthos' fist clenched tight, the creases in the leather of his glove pinching into his skin.

Twice he had been shown tonight that he had no place beside his old friend; had actually been seen as an enemy to the man. Porthos' frown deepened, his thoughts settling on what he had just witnessed in the room. The bruises new and old, some that he was sure were by his hands and he wondered if he had lost that particular honour that he was furious about being offered to another; wondered if had tossed it away as guilt stirred with the reminder that he had been aware all along of how hard he had been hitting his once friend during practice. And then there were the scars, the light raised ones across Aramis' back and the ones littering his front, scars that should not be there on the man who had spent four years at a monastery.

"Wait, wait," Athos grasped his arm and pulled him to a halt.

In the dim light staining the street he looked pale, blue eyes wide and shining and Porthos knew he was shaken just as much as him. It soothed his irritation at having been stopped from his mission. Aramis had told them to ask Treville and if it would take him waking up the Minister of France himself at this hour then Porthos would do it to get the answers he needed.

"We need a look out," Athos said.

"What?"

"Someone to keep watch on the Inn and let us know where the four of them went if they leave," d'Artagnan said.

Porthos bit back his frustration and nodded his acquiesce, years spent on the front lines had taught him the importance of strategy no matter how much you wished to charge ahead onto the enemy. He forced himself to calm down as they first went to the garrison and Athos ordered Brujon to stand watch outside the inn Aramis was staying at. Porthos saddled their horses just to keep busy and not dwell on the churning in his stomach that signaled that he had missed something, had missed something big about Aramis that he should not have. His old friend's scars came to his mind again and he mounted his horse; waited for the other two to get in the saddle.

And then he led them out into the city, urging his horse faster since the late hour had left the streets empty. As they reached the Palace gate the guards were shocked to see them. But Porthos let d'Artagnan handle them, smirking slightly at the thought of their wayward youngest having grown into this steady presence at his side. Dismounting he tossed the reins to a half asleep stable boy who had come out at the sound of their arrival.

"Are we under attack?" one of the guards demanded.

"Of course not," d'Artagnan shook his head, "but we need to see the Minister,"

"At this hour?"

"Is there a problem?" Athos asked, voice seething in cold fury.

D'Artagnan draped an arm over the surprised guard's shoulder and led him away. Porthos watched him lean close to explain something to the man who glanced from Athos to him before shaking his head slightly. It prompted a smile on d'Artagnan's face as he stepped back and patted the man on the shoulder.

"This way," the guard said.

And led them down the corridor to the Minister's personal chambers. Once outside the tall white doors he looked to Porthos again and with a resigned look tapped onto the wood.

"Allow me," Porthos moved past him.

Raised his fist and pounded hard on the door, enough to make them rattle slightly. By the second knock the door was jerked open and bloodshot eyes glared at Porthos. The Minister looked more drunk rather than sleepy, face set in a frown and the corners of his eyes pinched against what Porthos guessed to be a fierce headache.

"What is the meaning of this?" Treville demanded.

"We have some questions," d'Artagnan said.

The former Captain cursed under his breath and turned away. Porthos stuck his foot in just as the man pushed the doors close after him. He met the furious gaze steadily, chin rising slightly as the blue eyes fixed on him narrowed in irritation.

"We met Aramis Minister," Athos spoke up, "we – he said to ask you,"

"Ask me what?"

Porthos laid a hand on the door and pushed it open all the way. He walked in and grasped the nearest chair, pulled it around and straddled it. Crossing his arms over the backrest he refused to cower at his former Captain's displeasure. He had been on this end before, of Treville keeping secrets from him and knew patience was the key here. But patience was also something that was slipping from his grasp.

"We saw," his voice was steady, words coming out carefully measured, "we saw the scars,"

Treville's hand fell away where it had been clutching his gown over his nightshirt and he blinked in quick succession. Porthos saw the surprise give way to irritation before it settled on acknowledgment. The Minister turned to the two Musketeers by the door and walked past them to close the entrance.

"Sit," he pointed to the chaise.

It was the only furniture that looked comfortable other than the bed. Porthos shifted on the hard chair and thought better than to ask the Captain why he had a plain desk and chair in his room. D'Artagnan sat down heavily where directed but Athos crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall.

"The scars Minister," said the Captain, "of a soldier in a war,"

Treville sank down on the edge of his bed, his elbows pressed to his knees as he rubbed the back of his neck. When he looked to them his eyes had lost any haze that wine or sleep may have left there, his gaze was hard and gleamed with determination.

"That is because he was there," he said, "in a manner of speaking,"

"With another regiment?" d'Artagnan frowned.

"Not a regiment," Trevilled said, "a group of mercenaries,"

"Three of them?" d'Artagnan asked.

Treville glanced at him, a frown on his face as he shook his head.

"Nine that I sent to Aramis," he said, "by the time they disbanded five were dead,"

"Disbanded?" Athos asked.

"About the same time you three were called back from the front,"

Porthos was listening to it all, he was hearing the words but they were like the booms from the enemy cannon, wrapped in an unseen bellowing force that left a bone rattling silence in their wake. Their meaning reverberated in his mind as he tried to accept that all the time they had been waging war Aramis had been doing the same. As they had lived under the shadow of the enemy fire it seemed Aramis had as well, he was not tucked away safe in a monastery as they had been told.

"When?" Athos asked "how? Why?"

"Why use a group of mercenaries? I can explain that," Treviile shrugged, "but why Aramis agreed to join them and not you that's his answer to give,"

An answer that Porthos would draw out of him if it was the last thing he did he decided as he glanced to Athos and found the Captain's gaze that glanced his way; the man gave him a nod before he turned to the Minister and asked him to explain what he could. So Porthos sat and listened to the importance of a third force in play when two armies met; of the need for it to be a group small enough to be easily commanded and moved, so that it could be used for safety of the supply and correspondence routes and to snuff out enemy spies while gathering information for their own crown. Treville explained how he had met Aramis before he had reached Douai and made his offer. Porthos let the Minister emphasize how he needed someone to command such a group, a man he could trust and Aramis fit the job perfectly.

"Why?" Athos asked, "why him?"

"He was a trained soldier," d'Artagnan reasoned with an awed shake of his head, "and he had just resigned."

Treville nodded as his gaze traveled around the room. There was a distant look in his eyes and a smile on his lips that was nowhere near happy. He sat straighter and tipped his head in acknowledgment of d'Artagnan's words.

"That and there were other practical reasons to support my decision as well," he said, "but that is not why I needed him for this. There were other soldiers I could have sent in just as easily but for two most important reasons I needed Aramis for this especially."

And Porthos felt his gut tighten, there was something wrong in the way they were talking about a man, a human being, as if he was a piece on a game board let alone a man he had called a friend for years. He glanced at Athos and found his own displeasure in the pinched corners' of his brother's lips.

"Over five years ago, you all came to me about a massacre at a training exercise," Treville said, "When you returned at the end of the day it was to the news of an assassin's death. None of you questioned what had happened."

"Marsac was a liar and a murderer and he came to the garrison to seek some misguided revenge," d'Artagnan shrugged, "we know the story."

Words echoing out in an empty Palace hallway and the surprise on the face of his usually stoic friend came unbidden to Porthos' mind...

" _Did you hear all that?"_

 _He nods._

" _I saw the scar too. Marsac was right about the Duke."_

He glanced aside when he felt eyes on him and found both Athos and Treville watching him. Almost as if they had read his thoughts.

"Marsac was not a liar; Aramis knew that," Treville said, "but when Marsac came seeking his revenge Aramis followed him and when he could not reason with him, Aramis shot him down."

And that tightening in his gut turned into a sick feeling coiling there. The implication of the Minister's words left him wondering why he hadn't asked for the story before and why had Aramis never told them that he was right all along. That the Captain was indeed guilty of giving up their location and condemning them to a slaughter. His grip tightened on the backrest of the chair he was straddling. His thoughts spun as if he had taken a musket butt to the head and Porthos swallowed thickly, realizing that Aramis had shot down the man he had called a brother once, the man he was still loyal to until that man sought revenge not justice against the Captain who had betrayed them; a Captain that apparently Aramis held more in regard than Marsac.

A shiver went down his spine.

The pale face, the vacant dark eyes that had greeted him at the garrison upon their return that evening came to his mind. And Porthos felt his throat tighten with the need to grab that ghost of his past who had ignored those signs and shake him until he could see them. To somehow shake lose the courage in himself at that point in time to acknowledge what Aramis had been silently begging him to ask, to offer the man the strength of the brotherhood they swore by.

And it suddenly occurred to him that he had seen the same look in Aramis' eyes occasionally these past days. As if he had been pleading for them to ask, hoping for the mutual support they lived by. He blinked back the pain of missed opportunity and the guilt that rose at his assumptions at that time and the blindness in these past days.

"For all his recklessness I've always known that in the heat of the moment Aramis has a clean sight of where he stands," Trevilled shrugged a shoulder, "whether it's against his Captain or one of his best friends. Right or wrong, he knows where his place is; the day he shot Marsac it was by my side."

"And the second reason?" Athos asked.

"You three,"

"What?" d'Artagnan sat up straighter.

"No matter the differences brewing among you or the constraints of your situation, Aramis will always stand with you three," Treville said, eyebrows raised as if it was obvious from the first reason he had offered, "It made him the best choice to keep watch over the Musketeers regiment since it was personal –"

The screech of his chair silenced the Minister.

Porthos hadn't realized exactly why he was on his feet but the sense of unfairness and something else for his absent brother had pushed him to make a stand. Something that he didn't recognize even when he saw it in Athos' eyes and d'Artagnan's scowl, but it was there and it was pounding in his chest. Needing him to seek retribution for the man he had so diligently tried to hate.

"You –" his fists clenched at his sides, "you –"

"Used him," Athos' voice was steeped in disgust, "you used us to use him,"

"You knew that he would do all that he could to save us while we rode off to war and you used that," d'Artagnan shook his head.

And a distant afternoon in the streets of Paris flashed before Porthos' eyes. The sun, the crowd, the royal retinue a splash of finery among the commoners and then...

" _Bomb, bomb!"_

" _Clear the area!"_

" _No! Aramis no!"_

Porthos felt the same helpless fear tighten its claw around his chest, felt it pierce into his very flesh and hold on with a vicious twist as it had that day. When they had come face to face with the utter recklessness of the man he called his brother. His fists shook at the thought of Aramis embracing death in a blink simply because – because there was a chance they could be saved.

"It was personal for him," Treville spoke carefully, "I gave him a chance he wanted,"

And Porthos turned away lest he punched the Minister of France in the face. Curbed the need to hit something else if not the jaw of his former Captain as his thoughts turned to the fact that Aramis had been far closer to them in the past years than any of them could have imagined. He was right there, just a few lieues away during all the time they had spent at the front lines. And Aramis' words from a few days ago echoed in his ears as the desperate sensation of being pinned of that afternoon washed over him...

" _Whatever happens, I've got your back."_

...because he had; all along. All these years Aramis had watched their backs without any of them even being aware about it.

Wiping a hand down his face Porthos tugged lightly at his beard, his memory bringing forward that one set of scars his eyes had lingered on although his thoughts hadn't caught up at the time. It was a cluster of small scars, low on the side of Aramis' stomach and Porthos' brows pulled closer together as he realized they reminded him of the time early in their war years, a time when he had nearly drowned and been saved by Spanish agents, of a stab wound from a broken bottle that he had struck his savior with.

"I think he saved me," d'Artagnan said, ran his fingers through his hair and shifted where he sat on the chaise, "those long scars on his arm, I think they're from a wolf. I think – I think it was him that saved me that day and before from the snow-slide. I –" he bit his lip and looked away, "I spent nearly an entire day with him…"

Aramis had spent days with them, years. He had saved their lives time and again and Porthos wanted to know why Aramis had not told them, why had he not said something? Why had he kept his silence then and now, why did he let them hold his lies to their hearts as facts?

* * *

The taut strands in his muscles loosened bit by bit.

Aramis let his head fall back as his arms rested on the rim of the bath tub. The water had cooled down to gentle warmth, lulling him into a false comfort he was not ready to give in to. His thoughts were a tangle he had still not managed to smooth out. Faces of his brothers etched out behind his closed eyelids, surprise and uncertainty deep in their lines and anger too. It seemed anger was a given these days and Aramis knew he could not complain over that. As far as they knew he had abandoned them and if – no when Treville will tell them that he hadn't – he was sure it would burn away any remaining tethers he had left with those three.

A swirl of deep red silk gleamed in his memory, black lace and a mass of black curls and the scent of sweetened spice that he could not completely grasp. Aramis opened his eyes and stared at the rafters above him.

He had not thought of his mother in ages.

" _My mother on the other hand, she would have loved to be at your wedding."_

" _She would have probably cried."_

" _Definitely cried," they say in unison and snicker like children._

...and then she would have smacked them upside their heads for pointing it out to her.

Because tears were something she reserved only for special happy occasions, for everything else she smiled. It was her weapon when she was angry and her armour when she was sad and years later he realized it was also a means for their beds and food and a roof over their heads. His mother was a woman of courage and smiles.

Aramis smiled too.

Sat up slowly and cupping water in his hands splashed it on his face, rubbed as vigorously as he could to wash away any threat to the upturning of the corners of his lips. More water more rubbing, more water and the scratch of calloused fingers on his face, more water and blunt nails scraped on his stubble and pulled at his beard. Gasping slightly Aramis ran a hand through his hair and tugged off the string that had held them back. With a deep inhale he slid under water...

 _The accusation of murder and clash of steel echoes in the garrison yard._

" _Now, fight me or die on your knees! I don't care which."_

 _His own sword slams down on the one arching at Athos' back._

" _He said, enough."_

" _Very well. I'll fight both of you."_

 _Porthos' sword brings down its weight._

" _Three of us?"_

 _The enemy is at the walls and the weight of his musket is a reassurance; it is still not as much a support as the presence in the next window beyond the arched divide._

" _My parents always hoped I'd end up in a place like this."_

" _They wanted you to become a nun?"_

" _A priest."_

" _Why didn't you?"_

" _Because I found I was better at dispatching people to hell."_

 _Blue eyes hard in the face he knows better than his own. And the sight of a weapon in those hands aimed his way, a sight he has never thought possible._

" _Then lower your pistol," he says._

" _I never ask three times. Not of anyone."_

 _The accusing glares and the clash of steel echoes in the garrison yard._

" _Do you need to hit so hard?"_

" _How hard do you think they're hitting out there?"_

 _The strike to his middle throbs even as his back hits the table he is slammed upon._

 _Two swords arch towards him, Athos and Porthos._

" _Two war heroes at once. I deserve a medal."_

He sat up in a splash.

Breathing hard Aramis pulled his knees up and shivered slightly. Blunt nails digging into his skin as he pushed a hand through his wet hair and found it curling into a fist, the hold almost painful. It was the only reason for the stinging in his eyes he told himself, there was nothing else, nothing more. With a final tug he let go of the drenched curls and reached out with wrinkled fingers to grasp the nearest towel from the chair at his side. Drying himself off he dropped the towels to soak up the water from the floor and padded over to get dressed. Breaches, shirt and boots later he was closing the door after him and knocking on the one next to his own. The pouch he had picked up on the way was heavy where it hung in his grasp.

"Captain," Bazin opened the door, "should have known you wouldn't sleep,"

"Didn't need it," he said.

Walked past the young man who was tucking away the pistol he had been holding behind his back. His steps were lighter now after the hot soak that had left his body more relaxed than it had been in a long time. Sleep on the other hand would only eat away at that. Aramis went over to the small table as Planchet and Mousequeton put down their cards and he ignored their free hands putting back pistols. Aramis took the third chair and grinned lightly at the mercenaries turned farmers.

"Did it really require all three of you to come down to Paris to sell off a few sacks of extra grain you had?"

Bazin and Planchet looked to each other with a shift in posture similar to that of rabbits at the sound of twig snapping underfoot; alert and twitchy eared. Mousequeton simply shrugged.

"Grain has more chances of being stolen than gold these days," he said.

"At least one of you could have stayed back to keep an eye on your farm,"

"Henri has it in hand," the older man said.

"We wrote to Douai and were told you left for Paris," Bazin spoke in a rush.

"We thought we could share a drink together," Planchet lifted his shoulders in half a shrug.

Aramis refused to acknowledge the burning in his eyes at the words, but his grin softened into a smile. Looking at the three men before him he knew if he shared his plans with them they would turn away from the life just budding at their feet and leave it behind to follow him into their old. Faces of the two lost to that life came to mind and Aramis knew he could not see these three ending like Alios and Devereux, not if he could help it.

Sitting forward he placed the pouch Treville had given him; the one he had planned to give Pauline.

"When you return I'm sure you can find a good use for this," Aramis said.

"That's likely all your pay from those years," Mousequeton eyed the purse, "we can't take that,"

"You can and you will,"

"We don't need it and you will," Planchet said, "use this money and retire early from the Musketeers; they're not the friendliest bunch anyway."

"You could start a farm of your own," Bazin sat up straighter, "a small one next to ours and live off the land. We could be neighbors."

It was wonderful image, to live in peace with his friends nearby and watch their families grow even if he couldn't find it in him to start one of his own – not after Anne. But he could chase after shrieking children and follow their high pitched giggles and somehow find in their faces not just glimpses of these three men but also of the three not there with him at the moment. Yet deep down he knew it was just that, an image, a beautiful fantasy like Pauline had been chasing. Because he understood now that he was a restless spirit, peace didn't sit well with him and the only ties that had ever stopped him from being blown away like a fallen leaf were no longer there.

"How about you invest it on my behalf," he said, "use them where you see fit,"

"Only if you agree to take a share of the profits or produce," Mousequeton said.

Where he was going he had a feeling there wasn't much need for either. Aramis considered the offer he knew he would not be able to keep up with; they would expect him to come collect his share and if he didn't they would come looking for him with it.

And then a slow grin spread on his face.

"Alright," he said, "but my share goes to the monastery in Douai, tell the Abbot it's for the children there."

Mousequeton eyed him before giving a nod and reaching for the pouch. He tucked it in his belt and looked a bit startled when Planchet gave a mighty yawn. Aramis saw his own amusement reflected in the older man's gaze when he glanced back at him. Taking it as his cue Aramis got to his feet, he would need to collect his things from the room before he left.

"Take that room," Mousequeton said, "I'll take the other one and these two can share,"

Aramis was about to protest but stopped before the words could escape him. He may not sleep as he was prone to do but it would be good to meet these three at breakfast and see them off. So he nodded and turned to go, he was by the door when Bazin stopped him.

"You know where our farm is now, you will visit sometime right?"

And Aramis hated himself from keeping the truth from them.

"I will if I can," he said.'

"And we can write to the Musketeer garrison to reach you?" Planchet asked.

"Write to the Minister," Aramis said, "he will know wherever I am,"

"Thinking of retiring from the Musketeers after all?" Mousequeton raised a brow.

"I might," Aramis shrugged.

And left them to it. In the room that had been given to him he collected his discarded belongings. Set his hat and pauldron to the side, buckled close the doublet and smoothed it out before folding it carefully. It was when he set about sorting his weapons when his fingers brushed upon something too soft to ever belong to him. Nudging away the dagger he carefully picked up the white flower. It was still round and thick if a little bent from mistreatment.

His gaze blurred a little as he stared down at the white carnation Pauline had tucked in his doublet.

Breathing in the oddly familiar sweet and spicy scent he felt the pressure of his mother's slender arms around him, an embrace warm and soft, saw the dark eyes so much like his own and a thick round red flower in dark hair. His chest tightened and his eyes burned. Aramis left the flower on the table by the bed and went over to the window to throw it open. The night air was cooler than the one in his room and he leaned out slightly, breathed in deep and tried to will away the ache in his chest.

He frowned when he recognized the figure below in the street.

Glancing over his shoulder at the clothes and weapons on the bed Aramis decided he could save himself an awkward trip to the garrison and his Musketeer friends some pain and self-punishment. He walked back to the bed and collected the weapons, he had left his weapons behind the first time he had resigned and made sure to secure some on his way between Douai and Les Routes Perdues, but this time he knew Madame Pascal would have plenty waiting for him. So he warped them all and his uniform in the blue sash he had spread out for this purpose and taking the bundle he walked out of the room.

Down the stairs, out of the Inn and across the street. Brujon started when he saw him and hurried to get to his feet from where he was sitting on a barrel.

"At ease Musketeer," Aramis said.

And chuckled lightly at the shocked face as he perched on the barrel next to the cadet's; balanced the blue package on his knee and grinned at the wide eyes watching him. Brujon looked from him to the Inn and then back again before he cleared his throat.

"I – uh – that is –"

"You are here on the Captain's orders," Aramis nodded, "sit down Brujon and breathe,"

The cadet looked him up and down once before sitting down heavily on the barrel he had vacated. His shoulders slumped as he drew a hand down his face, gaze not shifting to the man at his side when he spoke.

"I was too obvious," it wasn't a question.

"The corner of this shop could have been better," Aramis said.

Brujon glanced that way and nodded more to himself than anything else.

"Deeper shadows," he said.

"And the awning would keep you safe from being seen from the windows,"

Brujon huffed and looked away. Aramis waited for the question he could feel thrumming in the young man at his side, curiosity of youth would win out eventually he could tell. And it was only a few minutes of silence before Brujon faced him.

"What's in the bundle?" he asked.

"Something you will give to the Captain,"

"I will?"

"If you would be so kind," Aramis smirked, "he would understand,"

Brujon reached out and touched the wrapping, lifted it a little with his fingers and frowned when he recognized the Musketeer sash for what it was. He looked up at Aramis and his frown deepened; his back straightening as he turned and faced Aramis fully.

"And who'll help me with target practice? Or Claremont and Pierre and the others with their sword work? And we all know Jean is going on walks with Mademoiselle Amelia because of whatever it was you told him!"

Aramis laid a hand on the narrow shoulder to calm down the cadet.

"You have war heroes to practice with Brujon,"

"Well the Captain has too much to do and Porthos is scary and d'Artagnan's short-tempered,"

Aramis couldn't stop the soft laugh that bubbled past his lips, his hand shifted to the back of the younger man's neck and he gave Brujon a little shake; smiled as the younger man slumped slightly at that.

"They're the best teachers any cadet would be lucky to have," Aramis gave him a gentle squeeze, "and they're just trying to make sure you live longer."

"They're war heroes and that makes them. Well they're not – not –" Brujon shook his head.

Aramis knew the word he was looking, had found himself stumbling over the same feeling too when it came to his old Musketeer friends. While reasons for him were far too many he knew it was the combination of time spent at war and coming home to find no comfort in what was supposed to be familiar that made the three of them seem unapproachable to the cadets. He drew his hand away from the younger man, wondering what the cadets would think if they had only known these three war heroes five years ago.

"But you're not," Brujon said, "I – we can talk to you,"

"Try that with Porthos," Aramis said, "you'd be surprised,"

Brujon whipped his head up to stare at him.

"He will have your back like no other," Aramis said, "listen to Athos, his words maybe few but they're the best instructions to teach you and d'Artagnan – well he was where you are not so long ago, he understands your position more than you think,"

The young man at his side remained silent and Aramis let him be. He wondered if he could secure a horse before the day dawned and went through the list of stables he knew were in the city before he had left it. He had enough money to take one but the odd hour may increase the price. As the silence stretched he glanced aside to find Brujon blinking sluggishly from where he had leaned back against the wall.

Tucking his bundle under his arm Aramis grasped the younger man's shoulder and shook him awake. Ordered him to his feet and guided him into the Inn and up to the room. Depositing him on the bed he left the bundle on the chair.

"They're war heroes," Brujon looked up at him.

"Yes,"

"But you've been with the regiment from its beginning,"

Aramis stopped short on his way out, with his hand on the door he turned around to stare at the cadet perched on the edge of the bed. The younger man was looking far more alert than he had been minutes ago.

"Who told you that?" Aramis asked.

"The Minister," Brujon said, "he would visit the garrison often when the regiment was deployed."

Aramis nodded, not denying what the former Captain had let slip although by the way Brujon was looking at him that was not all that Treville had told them. What tales the man had been telling Aramis dared not ask, but the respect in the eyes fixed upon him made him shift on his feet.

"I have some business to attend to, you can sleep h –"

"Now? You're leaving now?"

And damn if the lad didn't look like he was ready to launch himself off the bed to knock him down in an effort to stop him. Aramis shook his head and assured him that he was not leaving at the moment; that he would be returning to the room in a few hours at most.

"There are some friends here," he said, "We will all have breakfast together if you don't mind being up before the sun,"

"You're leaving with them?"

"No; after," Aramis told him.

And turned back to the door, stepped out into the corridor and closed it behind him. Amusement shining in his eyes as he caught sight of Brujon slumping to the side on the bed, asleep before he had hit the pillow.

* * *

The volley of question and answers had pattered into silence.

Night had faded into dawn that had bloomed into a morning much too bright for his taste.

He looked away from the open window, gaze shifting to the point on the wall above Porthos' head. The cold from the wall at his back had long seeped past his doublet and shirt and still he leaned against it. He needed that solid support at his back. With his arms crossed before him and the sole of a boot laying flat against the wall of the Minister's office Athos tried to un-see what he had stumbled upon that night, tried to un-hear what that had brought out in the open. He wanted desperately to forget the pointed burn mark he had seen on the front of Aramis' shoulder, it sparked afresh the pain in the same burn scar he carried at the same place on his body.

There had been so many times when Aramis had been there, unheard, unseen, and believed to be a figment of a fevered mind when Athos had laid eyes upon him, had talked to him and then he had condemned him to death.

Athos flinched; pulled away from that thought lurking in the darkness of his mind as if he had been bitten.

"And His Majesty knows about this arrangement you had?" d'Artagnan asked.

"He knew about the plan, not the people involved,"

The younger man pushed to his feet, Athos watched him trek up and down the small length along the chaise, cursing under his breath as he went. Before he could tell his Musketeer to stop d'Artagnan came to a halt and turned to the Minister. The morning light softened his features, smoothed away the war weary soldier and brought out the lad who had come searching for his father's murderer.

"Why not tell us?" he asked and raised a hand at the instant retort, "no I know you didn't tell us then, I get that it was to keep us from taking foolish risks but when he came back. When they had been disbanded, why not tell us then?"

The Minister took to his feet, rubbing at his forehead as the light from the window made him squint at the brightness in the room.

"Because they didn't exist," Treville said, "I told Aramis the day he returned with you three that not a word of what he did could ever be voiced. As far as the world knows the crown is neither responsible for nor aware of his work and of those under his command."

Athos pushed away from the wall, his eyes falling on Porthos who had remained silent for most of the past hours. D'Artagnan had been the one who had demanded answers the most, his temper riled up. But it was the cold fury in Porthos' rigged shoulders that worried Athos.

He looked from him to his former Captain, his own emotions too close to the surface for his voice to raise any more than a whisper.

"Why tell us now?" he asked.

Because they had been the ones demanding answers from Treville from time to time and the man had never given up what he knew this easily. It curled into a knot in his gut, this willingness, and Athos felt a shadow of fear crawling up his back when blue eyes met blue. Something like worry churned in the older eyes before Treville looked away; his gaze seeking out the window from where the sunlight was streaming into the room.

"Remember when I said we should tell each other everything?" he looked back to Athos and took a deep breath, "well here it is. Aramis has asked to be sent back to the frontlines, he has his orders though he will not have opened them as yet."

His eyes widened and Athos took a step forward.

And stopped.

His mind struggled to start again while his heart beat faster as if making up for the other's missed time.

"When?" he asked; cleared his throat, "when does he leave?"

"Today at dawn,"

That was hours ago Athos realized as looked to the window, nodded to himself as he pulled at his thoughts lest they scattered. And with the practice of the Captain who had commanded men on the battlefield he focused on the most pressing matter.

"When I was freed from the Spanish, I wrote to you. You told me it was the Red Guards who had set up posts on our supply routes to prevent highway robberies. A coincidence that worked in our favor," he said, "when I asked about it again upon our return you gave the same explanation,"

"I did,"

"But that was Aramis;" Athos didn't need to ask, "him and his people that were keeping our supplies safe. And you chose not to tell us,"

"Like I said just now, they didn't exist,"

Athos nodded again, reared back and punched the older man in the face; hard. Felt not a grain of remorse at the split lips, the bruised nose and the splatter of red that came from them.

"But they did Minister," he said, "He did,"

And shaking out his fist he turned around and walked out of the Minister's chambers; didn't wait to acknowledge the two men at his heels as they hurried to their horses and rode out off the Palace gates. Through the streets that had come alive with the rising sun and to the Inn where they had last seen Aramis. The Captain of the Musketeers saw a familiar face and pulled at the reins of his horse, turning the animal around in its halt. He looked down at the cadet who had come closer upon recognizing him.

"Captain! This is for you," Brujon said, "Aramis said you would understand,"

He didn't need to open the blue bundle to know what it was and simply handed it to Porthos, ignored the grim face of his friend as he shoved it in his saddle bag and looked down at Brujon.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"Once his friends were on their way, he left," Brujon said.

"And you let him?" d'Artagnan snapped.

Athos sent him a glare from the corner of his eye and told the cadet to head back to the garrison, ordered him to tell Madame d'Artagnan what had happened. Once the cadet was on his way Athos looked to d'Artagnan on his left and Porthos on his right.

" _Farewell then, old friend."_

" _Are we just going to let him go?"_

" _No. He's letting us go."_

He saw the same determination in their eyes that he felt beating in his own heart. Athos settled firmly in his saddle and urged his horse into a quick trot. The pace met by the other two behind him as they headed after their fourth.

"Not this time," Athos murmured.

* * *

 **not much action, but they got some answers finally :)**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank you Guest, Greenfern, Jmp, Thimble, Beeblegirl, Debbie, Caroline and Guest. Thank you for the enthusiastic response and your kind words. Thank you all who shared your thoughts about the last chapter.**

 **TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

The bottle was nearly empty.

His stomach churned, gurgled and clenched around the slosh of wine he had consumed with no food to soak it up. The long hours in the saddle had only been disrupted to let his horse rest along the way, food had been too far from his thoughts, thoughts that he was still trying to untangle even after the day spent in the tavern. Aramis stared at the letter he had set on the table and wondered how the hell he had ended up here...

" _Look to your left; now your right. A Musketeer is never alone Brujon. Remember that."_

...but he had not been a Musketeer for the longest time. Had given up that honour and then fooled himself into thinking that he could win it back. Had tried to fit into a space where there was none, had played the part and pretended his heart out but the damage was too much, the wound too old, the scar too hard. Aramis' poured the last of the wine and upending the bottle he shook it slightly to coax out the last drop...

" _It's good to see you again my friend. It's been too long."_

" _That wasn't my choice."_

...no it was his; he could not blame them for the way they reacted. He had no right to come looking for the world he had left behind. He was the one who had walked away, it all started with his decision, to sleep with the Queen, to keep it a secret, and then to walk away, flounder down the path in search of ways to keep safe those he held dear. And yet it was him who had brought them in the line of fire in the first place and he had broken what had held them together...

" _We were comrades. I never had to worry what was behind me because you – you had my back."_

...reaching out he picked up the sealed envelope. He knew how he had ended up here where he belonged, in a place he deserved; it was a fool's hope that had made him follow the Musketeers back to Paris. Aramis had dared to believe in it when he should have known better. There was nothing to do but move on, or try to. He glanced once at the glass he had filled and stood up, left that one full and alone at the table for the absent friends he had no way to return to.

Stepping out into the aging night, he tucked the letter in his belt and ignored the way the world shivered just a little in his gaze. Whether it was from lack of sleep, exhaustion or excess of wine he could not tell. Breathing to calm the swirling wine his gut Aramis turned to the door away to the side of the Inn. Briefly he wondered if he should come back in the morning but ignored the thought and knocked on the door.

"Madame Pascal," he bowed slightly before the woman who opened the door, "we meet yet again,"

"Had a feelin' you would turn up on m'doorstep sooner or later," she said.

"It is good to see you too,"

She stepped away from the door in a silent invitation to enter and went in search of her lantern. And Aramis smirked lightly; he could probably find his way to the cellar with his eyes closed. As it was she still lit his way down and offered him the lantern to take to the storage.

"Any more Ombres passed through here?" he asked.

Watched the old face contort in a frown as he stepped further down the ladder.

"Haven't met any," her voice filtered down in the cool metallic air of the storage compound, "but I've heard some have stopped by the house this evening. Didn't come to the Inn either but someone said they'd been trapping rabbits in the forest."

Aramis picked up a pistol, chose it from the many in the barrel and tested its weight before holding it out and checking its balance. It felt decent enough and he placed it in his belt, plucked off the nearest sword too and looked for another good pistol.

"How many?" he called.

"Don't know,"

Aramis decided he would come later to fill up for the people under his command and taking what he needed he climbed out of the storeroom. Madame Pascal saw him to the door and closed it after him. With the comfort of the weapons in his belt he went to collect his horse; asked the stable-hand to not saddle the animal and taking the reins from the man led the animal down the street, the sloshing in his stomach wouldn't allow him to mount the horse and he hadn't the strength to unsaddle the animal all over again once he reached the house.

There was a heaviness settling in his bones, making each footfall an effort. Aramis trudged along and forced his mind to think ahead, searched for reserves he would need for the encounter with this new lot Treville had brought for him. He hoped that this one was like the last one and a grimace pulled at his features at the thought of the two men he had lost from that handful.

Swallowing back the sour taste that rose to his mouth Aramis stopped in his tracks and leaned against his horse's flank. There was an unseen weight bearing down on him and closing his eyes he waited for the sinking feeling beneath his feet to stop...

" _What's the vital thing to remember in a duel?"_

" _Honour?"_

" _Not getting killed. By biting, kicking, gouging, it's all good."_

" _I was raised to fight like a gentleman."_

" _Were you raised to die young?"_

...because this time there was not even the solace of watching over his brothers from afar, just a loss he would carry to the bitter end. With a wince Aramis forced himself away from the patient animal and patted its neck. Refused to think of the hollow pain that reverberated through him, ringing in the empty spaces of his heart where there was no honour left, no reason, no purpose...

" _A musket for hire with thieves for company and one eye on the door."_

...one step after another.

To move on ahead, to turn his back on what he had left behind and walk; walk away as far as he could and hope that he could somehow leave his past behind him. Aramis looked up when his horse neighed softly, tossed its mane in irritation when the man looked back over his shoulder. He murmured an apology to the animal for dragging it along as he had been doing. Scratching at the animal's forehead he shook his head slightly, it seemed this was what he did, dragged along those at his side into trouble.

Turning back Aramis resumed his walk down the dirt road, his steps stumbling as the earth seemed to lurch under his feet. The world swaying gently as he made his way to the house at the end of the lane. He watched his destination come closer, squinting at the muted glow that fused out from the window and counted the horses tied to the post at the front of the house. Three of them.

This was it.

And he had made his peace with it once. He should have left it to that. Should never had left Douai. He was lucky that he had succeeded in achieving what he had set out to do. He had seen his brothers safely home from war; he should have let it end there, stopped the story and repeated the glowing warm chapters of the beginning residing in his heart, recounted them to willing ears until his last breath. Should have stayed back and lived with his guilt and his hope...

" _Better to die a Musketeer than to live like a dog,"_

...bile rose to the back of his throat again and Aramis coughed. Stumbled a few steps and bent forwards when the assault he had been holding at bay finally hit him. Coughed and gagged and brought back all the wine he had consumed and still his stomach clenched. Pulled on his insides and burned in his throat, pushing to force out every last remnant that he may be carrying.

Aramis coughed again and clutched at his middle as his stomach rebelled again and again and again.

There was nothing left in him and yet it demanded more.

A low groan slipped past his lips and he forced them shut. Swallowed back the bitter taste and straightened, locking his knees when they threatened to give away under him. Measuring his breath he swallowed a few times and cleared his throat; his lips turning up slightly when he felt a wet nose nudge at his shoulder and he turned back to his horse.

"Thank you," he said, voice coming out a little raspy, "you are too kind,"

He led his horse over to the three and found a place for it. Stopped at the threshold and adjusted his weapon's belt before reaching out to open the door. He dropped his saddle and saddlebags under the pegs by the door and turned to the room that was lit from the blaze in the fireplace, just as it had been years ago when he had first entered this house. Aramis walked further into the main room ready to meet the new faces.

And stopped in his tracks at the sight of the old.

Athos and Porthos looked up at his entrance, attention drawn from where they were sitting in the chairs by the table and d'Artagnan turned around from where he was stirring a pot over the fire. Aramis stared, eyes rounding as they traveled from one face to the other. His throat tightened, threatened to close up completely and he swallowed hard.

The door was behind him; he could turn around and leave.

Aramis let go a breath as a shiver passed through him.

Run, his mind told him, run now.

His heart agreed; it couldn't take this anymore.

* * *

He put down the ladle slowly.

Gaze not leaving the dark eyes that went over his face before shifting on to others, the shock and confusing there making the man before them look younger than his years. Stepping away from the hearth d'Artagnan stepped closer to where his friends sat and watched pain gleam in Aramis' eyes and something else too; something that looked like fear.

D'Artagnan stepped ahead, heard the creak of chairs as he friends surged to their feet and to his horror Aramis scuttled back a few steps.

"Stop," d'Artagnan raised his arms, "just stop, all of us."

He glanced at Athos and Porthos; they had noticed the retreat too and it sickened him to know that Aramis was apparently viewing them as a threat. He didn't want to imagine exactly what the man expected of them but there was no denying that Aramis was once again not at their side but across from them. With a nod d'Artagnan turned and walked back to the pot over the fireplace. Picked up the ladle and stirred the stew though it didn't need it.

"Dinner's ready," he said over his shoulder, "grab a bowl, I'm not your housemaid,"

Grumbling under his breath Porthos stomped down the corridor to where they had found the kitchen in their initial search of the house and d'Artagnan felt relieved when Athos turned away too, moving past Aramis to rummage in his saddle bag.

"I think another bottle of wine would do," he said.

D'Artagnan looked to Aramis who was still staring, a look of bewilderment mixed with uncertainty that would have been amusing if not for the unshed wetness in his eyes. He waited until the dark eyes met his gaze and motioned to his saddlebag by the wall where Aramis was still standing, looking impossibly exposed without his doublet or a cloak.

"There's bread in there," d'Artagnan said.

And turned to take the bowls and spoons and glasses that Porthos returned with; kept a watch from the corner of his eye on Aramis who stood their blinking like a child shaken awake. But it passed and d'Artagnan let go a breath he didn't know he had held back when the man knelt to grab the bread and then walked up to the table. Yet he didn't say a word as they sat to eat and stared at the bowl of rabbit stew with the wariness of a man expecting it to hop away from before him. By the intensity of his frown d'Artagnan had a feeling it just might and rolled his eyes.

"What did the poor stew ever do to you to deserve such a treatment," he asked.

Aramis looked up at him with a start and d'Artagnan grinned, it spread wider when he saw some of the rigidness melt from the shoulders of the man sitting across from him. Deciding not to point it out he turned his gaze away to Athos and told him that his horse needed a new bridle. His mind half registered the reply since it was busy congratulating itself as Aramis eased enough to raise a spoonful of stew to his mouth. His father had always said food was the best way to calm rising tempers, which was why he had insisted they wait for Aramis at the house Treville had talked about last night. And absurd as it was d'Artagnan smiled when food offered them a bit of normalcy which gave way to a comfortable silence that fell across the table, not happy but just calm enough.

It lingered still as they finished eating and d'Artagnan noticed with a frown that Aramis' glass of wine hadn't been picked up once, he had barely touched his bread and the bowl before him was more than halfway full as well. Dark eyes met his own, catching his subtle observations and d'Artagnan looked away.

Aramis lightly pushed away the bowl before him and crossed his arms on the table.

"Why are you here?" the man finally asked.

"What do you think?" Porthos countered.

"I think the Minister talked,"

"An understatement of what we were exposed to, but yes," Athos nodded, "he had a lot to share."

Aramis gave a dry chuckle as he sat back, an arm draping over the corner of the chair's backrest as he regarded the Captain sitting at his side. His smile was all sharp edges and playful smugness when he spoke next.

"He must be cursing my name for putting him in that position," he said.

"He should have allowed you to tell us that you've been –" d'Artagnan shook his head, "that you were – he shouldn't have ordered your silence,"

"It doesn't matter what you knew or didn't;" Aramis said, shrugged a shoulder as his smile turned more cutting, "I may have been in a monastery or in camps trailing the Musketeers yet it doesn't change the fact that I left you all. Nor does it change the reality that I don't belong where I once did. I left, for where shouldn't matter."

"Of course it matters," d'Artagnan said and it held all the indignation he felt.

And that was what Aramis' dark eyes pinned down with one word.

"Why?"

Aramis' gaze didn't falter, his smile remained and d'Artagnan looked away again, for some reason he couldn't find it in him to meet the dark eyes that were forcing questions in his mind he rather not think about. And yet he did, he had to wonder if Aramis had been at the monastery all these years would they still have followed him if he had walked out on them again? And why were they here anyway? Was it guilt? If it was then did that mean that they have been punishing him since he returned? He flinched as memory of the recent sword practices he had witnessed came to his mind and something akin to self-disgust stirred in him for not having stepped in when deep down he knew that things were getting out of hand in those pretend fights. Would they still feel guilty for it had they not known what Treville had told them? Were they feeling guilty of that at all?

His gaze met Porthos' and saw the same turmoil in the eyes he had learned to read so well; found it in the blue ones as well when he glanced at Athos.

"So gentlemen, the question remains. Why are you here?" Aramis asked.

And damn him for being able to read them all so well too.

* * *

His gaze fell from where he had met d'Artagnan's and onto Aramis' hand that had curled into a fist where it had remained on the table.

Porthos felt his own hands clench in his lap; he could not deny that he hadn't forgiven his friend for abandoning them, could not honestly say that there was no hint of guilt behind his thoughts that had urged him to follow the man here, guilt that had stirred only when Treville had explained the scars that his friend carried and he had actually witnessed the bruises his blows had left on the man he had once called a brother. He looked to Aramis and something chipped in him when his old friend's eyes flicked towards him the same instance, unerringly catching his gaze in a manner too familiar.

"Why did you return with us?" Porthos asked.

His own breath catching in his throat at the surprise of the question that had slipped past his lips. He could feel d'Artagnan sit up straighter, could feel Athos' eyes boring holes into him and wondered why this was the first thing he needed to know. Why was it so important to know the reasons his friend had to follow them back to Paris?

"I missed you," Aramis' voice was low, but the words didn't waver, "all of you,"

And that knocked the breath out of him.

He had not expected the honesty. The simple words for such a raw sentiment.

" _Your name's Porthos? After the hero in the stories?"_

" _Stories? I was named after my mother's father."_

" _You were 'the' Porthos?"_

" _The Porthos. This is the Athos and the D'Artagnan."_

He had been too angry, too caught up in the shock of finding Aramis again. Too bitter to face the man who had abandoned them to war. But now he couldn't help the warmth that unfurled in him, not the scorching heat of resentment that wished for the same pain upon Aramis that he had suffered by losing his friend, but a pleasant glow of home and hearth that came from the knowledge that he had been in his friend's thoughts all along. Porthos pulled in a long breath and held it, grabbed onto that feeling and let it sink.

"Why did you leave?" Athos asked, "this time; why are _you_ here?"

Something flickered in Aramis' eyes, a flash of pain that was gone as soon as it came.

"I think I've had enough of the self-flagellation that was going around," he said, "my own included."

Porthos frowned. There was something about the choice of his friend's words that pricked at him. His frown deepened when Aramis glanced to the side and they found a rather shocked looking Athos. The Captain of the Musketeers closed his eyes as a grimace skittered across his features.

"Penance," he said.

And Porthos felt the word like a kick to his chest, his gaze darted from Athos to Aramis and he shook his head slightly. Whatever came over his face it softened the look in the Aramis' eyes who was watching them both. And then Aramis simply nodded.

"I understand," he said.

And Porthos flinched; because his friend looked like he honestly did. He would have readily faced anger, he would have taken accusations and he would have met the blame head on but the resigned look in Aramis' eyes left him feeling unbalanced. The sheer exhaustion that emanated from his old friend as he brought up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and smooth his finger and thumb over his brow stirred in Porthos something akin to what he had felt when Treville had explained his second reason to recruit Aramis. Porthos glanced at the fist on the table, he could reach out and grasp the man's forearm, could offer him – no – he looked away. Suddenly the table between them was too much of a distance, years worth of it.

"I understand I was foolish to leave for Paris with you," Aramis said, "I don't have a place among you three, why drag it out and make it painful for everyone?"

"No," d'Artagnan shook his head, "no, that's not right,"

And to Porthos' surprise their youngest laid a hand over Aramis' fist, his eyes going from him to Athos and then back at Aramis. Shaking his head he curled his hand and gripped the one beneath his. Face set in determination and chin rising in defiance.

"No," said their youngest.

And Athos was laying his hand on top d'Artagnan's. The Captain turned to look at Aramis and gave a firm nod.

"All for one," he said.

That promise, that accursed vow they hadn't voiced since the day Aramis had walked away hung in the air like an arrow flying to its mark. Porthos exhaled slowly. He reached out and placed his hand on Athos'.

"And one for all," Porthos said.

Watched as Aramis looked from them to the hands piled over his own. Brown eyes wide with a telltale gleam before he shook his head slowly. Aramis let go a breath, pulled out his hand and with the screech of his chair pushed away from the table.

* * *

He hadn't just pulled away.

He had scrambled out of his chair, shaking his head as he went.

Athos watched the man stumble slightly and throw out a hand to grasp the wall for support. His breathing fast and eyes clenched shut as he leaned against the hand pressed onto the wall. Head dipping slightly as he pursed close his lips and breathed through his nose.

Aramis' fingers curled into a fist against the wall as shook his head slowly and straightened. Pushed away from the support the wall offered and forced his breath smooth, a change swift and sure from a panicking man to one in control, the act of a man who could not afford to lose it. And Athos saw the Aramis he had seen questioning him in Saint Antoine, saw the man stepping in to calm a dispute at St. Pierre's house with an authority that he permeated though it was not sanctioned.

" _You know I hate following orders."_

" _Then don't make me give you one."_

A leader Treville had asked him to become upon their return to Paris and now he was looking at the one the Minister had succeeded in making. While he was still a soldier at heart, still looking to his superiors for orders and directions be it from the King or the Minister. But as Aramis stood firmly on his feet and looked to them with a hard smile that was nothing like the man they had known, Athos knew he was watching the Captain those three men had addressed him as. This was a man ready to make a decision, difficult though it may be and he looked ready to see it through.

"I'm honoured that you've followed me here, but our paths had long been separated and I see no way of them entwining again," he said, spread his arms out in a gesture too open to be honest, "But I hope you've got all the answers you needed,"

"All the answers we needed?" Porthos growled.

He was on his feet before Athos could stop him, his hand grasping his friend's arm to pull him to a halt only a few steps away from Aramis. His warning hold did nothing to prevent the glower from the larger Musketeer and when Athos glanced at the target of his rage there was a challenge in the younger man's eyes. It dawned on him that this was exactly what Aramis wanted, he was pushing them into reacting the way they were so that he could avoid – Athos frowned slightly – avoid what?

"You want to give us answers then tell us why you walked away from us? Why did you choose to fight alongside mercenaries instead of us?" Porthos grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him closer, gave Aramis a slight shake, "We were brother weren't we? If you were going to fight in the war why not at our side?"

Aramis grasped the wrists of the hands holding him but made no move to free himself. His smile held a touch of mockery, his eyes a hint of taunt and Athos' frown deepened. Whatever the man was thinking of doing the Captain simply knew it was not a sane move to goad Porthos, not on this matter.

"You know why I walked away," Aramis said, "You all know it very well."

"Oh yes, you made a vow. What happened to that when you were out their fighting in the war?" Porthos sneered, "Was it just for us then?"

"Yes, yes it was,"

And Athos' hand fell away from his friend as he closed his eyes even as he heard Porthos slam the man in his grasp back into a wall. Somewhere there was a screech of a chair that told him d'Artagnan had left his seat too but it was drowned out by the harsh sound of a gasping laugh that came from Aramis. Like a rustle of glass shards that were being dragged against the floor it left Athos wincing.

"I abandoned you all," Aramis chuckled drily, "I left,"

"You didn't abandon us," d'Artagnan spoke up.

Athos glanced to the younger man who had come to stand at his side and was staring at the man pinned to the wall with something almost like pleading in his eyes. D'Artagnan shook his head and laid a hand on Porthos' shoulder, gaze flicking from one man to the other.

"You didn't abandon us," he said again, "you were watching our backs the entire time,"

"Why?" Porthos demanded, "Why did you do it?"

Aramis let his head fall back against the wall with a hard thud, his gaze taking a distant look that had Athos reaching out to grip Porthos' arm again, fingers digging just a little tighter. It was a glimpse of what was brewing beneath the surface of Aramis' demeanor and the Captain's mind raced to understand it before more damage could be done.

"You were going to war," Aramis said.

The quiet tone hinted at something that was just there, just a bit out of reach. Athos let go of Porthos as he watched Aramis blink slowly, his eyes focusing back on the men before him.

"Then you could have ridden out with us when we came for you," Athos said.

"I couldn't,"

And that was the crack in the ice he had been looking for.

"Why?" he pushed.

"Wasn't safe for you all to have me at your side," Aramis said.

He let go of Porthos' wrists, his hands falling by his sides as he looked the big man in the eyes.

"My presence was a danger. I couldn't risk it," he said.

"We can take care of ourselves. You had no right to decide that for all of us," Porthos snapped.

And something shifted in Aramis' face. He wrenched free from the man's grasp and shoved him back; it did little more than to make Porthos stumble back a step and that Athos was sure it was simply from the surprise of it. Their old comrade glared at the big man and jabbed a finger in his chest, his other hand clenched in a fist at his side as the dark eyes narrowed in fury.

"You had been forced into being fugitives because of my actions, because it was your decision to stand by my side;" he glared at the Musketeer before him, "Your right to chose that gives me the bloody right to decide what I saw fit to keep you all safe!"

"You –"

"Yes I decided that and I will make that same damn decision all over again if you throw me back in that situation," Aramis growled, "when I was shackled in the dungeons you think the only ones in danger were my son and my love? You were all set in a line for the gallows, Constance was imprisoned! Lemay was beheaded. Even if you had made a liar of Rochefort the seeds of doubt were already sowed."

He stepped back from Porthos and turned away; ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the curls that were caught between his fingers and Athos saw fear in the dark eyes staring at the floor.

"War makes death a habit, it makes it even easier to cover up a murder," Aramis said.

"We would have protected you," said Porthos.

Aramis looked up at him and smiled, a softening in his face that was almost fond.

"I know, and I couldn't let you," he said, "besides it was not the safety of my life that made me take that decision. I was not the only one who would have been conveniently lost in the war; you three wouldn't have survived it either. Even without me there you three could still have had a target on your back. I needed to watch out for it."

And Athos suddenly remembered the massacre his friend had survived in the cold of Savoy, remembered what they had learned about it just recently, about the betrayal at the top of the command. His gaze met Aramis' and the other man shrugged a shoulder in manner bordering on helpless.

" _I didn't know Adele was dead. The last I heard, she'd gone to the cardinal's country estate. I – I thought she'd made her choice."_

" _She did monsieur. She chose you. The cardinal said you'd understand the necessity for her death."_

The dark crypt flashed in his mind as the smell of dust lingered in his memory. Athos remembered the pain on his friend's face, the cold shadows there that had suddenly made the man before him seem aged and weary.

"Suspicions and whims of those in power can get entire units of men slaughtered," Aramis said, "I had been through that once. I couldn't let it be you all this time around."

Athos flinched when Porthos suddenly reached out and swung Aramis around to face him. For a minute he was sure the Musketeer would land a hit on the man in his grasp and he could feel d'Artagnan stiffen at his side, clearly thinking the same. There was open defiance in Aramis' stance, in the hardening of his eyes as he stared at the bigger man.

And then Porthos yanked him closer, wrapped his arms around Aramis and held him.

D'Artagnan chuckled and Athos smiled.

But the tilt of his lips upwards slowed when his eyes met Aramis' over Porthos' shoulder. The younger man's arms were still at his side, rigid even, and the half of his face that was visible over the big man's shoulder was slack in shock. But the worst were his eyes; pained and wide and bordering on terrified.

This, Athos realized, was what the man had been seeking to avoid.

While they had had each other to ease the pain of one loss, Aramis had lived alone with the loss of three. He had endured being close to them while making sure he was not acknowledged; how many times had the man ensured they made it back to each other Athos wondered and realized that all those times Aramis had lived with the belief that he could not follow the path to them. A sickening feeling churned in his gut as it dawned on Athos how fragile that tentative hope must have been and how firm the resolve and the faith in his brothers behind it that had made their old friend follow them back to Paris. And that sick feeling burned in the back off his throat, making him swallow hard at the realization of how thoroughly they had shattered that, how firmly they had rebuked him.

His thoughts were confirmed when he noticed Aramis' hand coming up to create space between him and Porthos.

"Please don't," said Aramis.

* * *

Don't; please don't do this his heart begged.

Thundered in the cage of his ribs as if looking for an escape, pounded against the flesh to let it out, to let it go and let it be. His hands pressed against Porthos' chest and pushed, strength waning as a trembling started in his limbs.

"Don't," he said again.

Tried to put some distance between them.

But Porthos held him closer, the arms around him shifting to hold him just a bit tighter. And he couldn't take it. Aramis shifted slightly in the little room he had only to be pulled snug in the embrace again. His throat dried up. He couldn't take this, this constant tug and shove that had fooled him the first time around. The moments of camaraderie, the fleeting sense of brotherhood and belonging that had fed the embers of his ridiculous hope only to be met with icy glares and cold shoulders.

He cleared his throat.

"Let me go," his voice was still hoarse.

"No," Porthos murmured, "stop fighting it,"

One large hand shifted to the back of his head, tangled in his hair and pressed him closer still.

"Stop fighting us brother,"

But he wasn't their brother, hadn't been their brother for years now. Aramis wriggled and pushed back, cursed the sudden shivering that had set in his bones and blinked at the burning in his eyes even as he tried to break free. He snarled when he couldn't. His breath coming in harsh gasps as he struggled like a trapped animal, the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears drowned out the world until all he could think of was how much he had lost.

His brothers, his honour, his love, his son, his home, his life that he had fought so hard to build away from under the shadow of the d'Herblay's bastard he had grown up as.

But if there was one thing little Rene of his beautiful Maman had taught the man Aramis was, it was the ability to live, to treasure each moment until he had to move on again; because that was inevitable for him. It was his curse; to wander forever, to never belong. So he would do just that, he would move on from this as well because there was nothing left for him to go back to.

"Don't do this," it was his own voice that broke through his thoughts, "just let me go,"

And then he heard another voice. Close to his ear.

"We're here brother. I'm here," Porthos murmured, "And I've got ya Aramis, I've got ya,"

And he had, warm and strong and there, right there holding him like nothing could ever come between the two of them.

Aramis' breath snagged at the back of his throat and he coughed, his struggle easing to a stop as he instinctually curled into his friend. His arms moved up and slid around the brother he had so firmly believed was lost to him. Hands that had been trying to shove him back clutched at the back of Porthos' doublets and Aramis could feel the sting in his fingertips where they dug in their grasp to hold close his friend. With his face turning his nose pressed into his brother's collar and Aramis just breathed.

The leather of his friend's doublet pinched at his cheek but he didn't move away, he had missed him – he had missed them – missed this so damn much.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he said.

Voice breaking slightly that had nothing to do with the sudden squeeze from Porthos' arms.

" 'm sorry too," muttered the big man,"could've handled it better,"

Aramis snorted and pulled back slightly, feeling steadier than he had in years when the dark eyes that met his own were those of his brother, not the war ravaged hero but Porthos – strong, gentle and full of guilt Aramis realized. He shook his head and tipped his head to the side when the other man didn't let him go completely, his large hands curled in a near possessive grip on Aramis' forearms.

"You were hurting," Aramis said.

"Shouldn't have let that rule my words and a-"

"I understand my friend," Aramis cut him off with a shrug, never wanting to see the depth of guilt in those eyes, "monastery or mercenaries, I did abandon you for them,"

"Well he could be a gentleman and let others welcome you back for starters," d'Artagnan spoke up, eyes widening in mock innocence, "I mean that is, if you're looking for a better way to handle things Porthos,"

Porthos gave their youngest a sideways glare and Aramis had no warning before he was yanked forwards in another embrace, his face smashing against the buckles of Porthos' doublet and back bent at an awkward angle. He felt instead of saw one of his friend's arm curling around his head as Porthos turned abruptly to the side.

"Wait your turn," his growl was playful, " 'm not done yet."

"That's not fair!"

"Not my problem," Porthos tossed over his shoulder.

And Aramis felt himself getting dragged along as the man turned again, maneuvering him out of d'Artagnan's view. Aramis hid his grimace in the leather of Porthos' doublet, the angle was wrecking havoc on his back muscles but he could not complain, not when he could hear the lightness in Porthos' voice that he hadn't ever since they had returned to Paris.

"Gentlemen," Athos' voice cut in – the tone so achingly familiar in that sardonic exasperation that Aramis felt his eyes burn as he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

"Fine," Porthos said.

And letting Aramis up he stepped back slightly only to have the younger musketeer fill his place. D'Artagnan threw his arms around Aramis much like the young man he had been before the war and stepped back grinning wide. His hands still clasped onto Aramis' arms, the hold firm yet gentle, fingers splayed as if intent to cover the scars underneath although he couldn't see them through the sleeves. The younger man's gaze flicked there and when he looked up there was a wet sheen in his eyes.

"I –"

Aramis shook his head slightly, silencing the words not yet formed.

"It's over," he said.

D'Artagnan nodded and cleared his throat.

"Welcome back," he announced.

"Aren't you a bit too sure of yourself," Aramis raised a brow, the words softened by a smile.

But his smile faltered when a sudden bout of dizziness had him stepping back to lean against the wall. He barely registered the hand on his arm as he slowly slid to the ground, legs folding under him even as he closed his eyes to wait out the spinning of the room. He wondered if the wine was still somehow affecting him even though he had expelled all that he had consumed this night and then some.

"When was the last time you slept?" Athos' voice came through the roaring in his ears.

Breathing carefully through his nose Aramis cracked open his eyes and glanced at the man from the corner of his eye where the Captain of the Musketeers had come down to his knees beside him. It was him gripping the arm, the sleeve of Aramis' shirt clutched in a fist as if he had grabbed him at the last second.

"I –" Aramis frowned, swallowed thickly, "the night before Pauline died?"

He had not meant it to come out as a question and the glare that the blue eyes leveled at him was enough of a proof of it being the wrong answer. Drawing a hand over his eyes he shrugged, sleep hadn't been his friend for years now anyway.

"I'm fine," he said.

"You are an example of it," Athos replied.

He let go of his arm and sat back on his haunches, divested Aramis of his pistols and sword before he shifted back against the wall, taking off his doublet as he went. Aramis watched him fold it before placing it on his outstretched legs. It seemed like he was settling in for the night and a glance beyond told him so was d'Artagnan as he flopped down on Athos's other side.

"Too many nightmares," Porthos said like someone who knew about them.

"I sleep when I need it," Aramis said.

"Looks like you've needed it for a while now," d'Artagnan snorted form Athos' other side.

Aramis couldn't deny that, so he pulled his legs out from under him and shifted to find a comfortable spot on the floor. And somehow sitting there on the hard floor with a bare wall at his back, sitting there between Athos and Porthos; their shoulders nearly touching his, Aramis found he hadn't felt this comfortable in years. He felt a smile touch his lips as he stared at the glow of fire beyond the table before him and knew that the warmth that he was feeling had nothing to do with the blaze.

"No matter what we wish, things have changed," he said.

Porthos threw an arm around his shoulders and the grin that came to his face was a defiance to his words all unto itself. Aramis glanced at his friend, careful not to move his head too much lest the dizziness gained momentum again.

"All the more reason to keep some of the old safe and close," Porthos said, "something unfailing to touch upon when nothing makes sense."

"Something to remind us of who we are," Athos nodded.

And it was a wonderful thought. Yet Aramis couldn't help the twinge of sadness in the face of this confidence, for he had seen the shifts and changes and the growth in his friends that he could not deny. Sinking into the grasp of the arm that was wrapped around his shoulders he shook his head softly. Winced when that stoked the feeling of spinning that had settled around him.

"But we have changed," he said, "all of us. Even I have changed and –"

He stopped abruptly when he felt a hand land on the back of his neck. He turned his head to look at Athos who had turned slightly and was staring at him with all the conviction of a man who had spent years facing down enemy fire. His hand was a grounding pressure at the nape of Aramis' neck, affectionate and firm.

"You asked something of me when we were captives," Athos said, "And now I'm asking you for the same,"

Faith.

He had asked Athos to have faith in his brothers.

Aramis bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from screaming that he had shown that faith hadn't he? It was his faith in their brotherhood that had brought him back to Paris and into the ranks he had left behind after all. As if in reflex to the rigidness that was now quivering with the strain in his neck, the hand at the back of it pressed a little harder, fingertips kneading the taut pull there. And Athos' voice was hoarse at the edges when he spoke next and the blue eyes meeting his gaze were seeking something, shifting carefully through Aramis' thoughts like trembling hands sifting through a heap of glass figurines.

"I only see it now for what it was," he said as if he had read Aramis' thoughts, voice pitching in soft plea, "Just tell me that it is not completely lost,"

Aramis closed his eyes.

He could not face this, could not accept his own stubborn belief that kept him tethered to the men he called brothers. It was dangerous and silly and it hurt and it was one of the few precious things in his life that always kept him going. Even when he felt that he had nothing left to give he couldn't help but offer more.

He gave a sharp nod.

His eyes opening in surprise when Athos pulled him close, Porthos' arm falling away as the big man shifted a little to give him more room and suddenly the side of his head was resting on Athos' doublet where it was folded over his friend's legs. Aramis stared wide eyed at the fire in the hearth that was clearly visible from his new angle and held his breath at this change of events.

Years of distance from the men he believed his brothers. Years of living with being the one in charge; as the one responsible for everyone under his command, the one responsible for the safety of an entire regiment and planning and re-planning to keep ahead of both friends and enemies now made this suddenly vulnerable position terrifying.

He hadn't realized how rigid he had gone until he felt the hand on his shoulder, thumb swiping to and fro in a motion too soft for the stiff fear in his muscles. And there was another one, a larger hand that had settled on his knee, heavy and warm, and then there was a doublet draping over him. Distantly he realized it was d'Artagnan's although he had no idea how he had guessed that. The glare from the blaze was making his eyes ache and as Aramis let go the breath he had been holding; the tightness in his chest loosened a bit.

"What you did for us, the way you watched our backs. I can't imagine how hard that must have been," d'Artagnan said, his voice coming from somewhere by his head, "I still have nightmares about those wolves and now that I know it was you who stepped before them I can't even – what I'm saying is, thank you,"

"And as for you not having a place among us, that's just not possible," Porthos' voice was gruff, as if it was having trouble moving past his throat, "we tried – I tried – tried bloody hard too but you were there 'Mis. In every sadness and joy you were there even if you weren't. Even if I wished you gone you were there; a bloody stubborn presence haunting the life out of me. The place that you have at our side can never fade out or be filled by someone else,"

"What he means is that you could have been in the monastery all these years and we still would want you back with us," Athos said, his hand shifting from Aramis' shoulder to the side of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, "we were hurting and bitter and we forgot that just because you've sat out one war doesn't change what you had learned from all the ones you had been a part of. Even if you hadn't done what you did during this war you'd still be one of us."

"It's just that what you did do is kind of –" d'Artagnan searched for the word, "you must have saved our lives so many times and we didn't even know. That's –"

"Idiotic," Porthos finished for him, "don't you dare do that again,"

The weight on his knee lifted and came down onto his side. His breath paused again as the large hand rested on the smattering of small healed wounds beyond the shirt; the palm was warm where it pressed in a tender grip and was light in a silent apology even as it trembled with the heavy guilt behind it.

"And even if you had avoided that idiocy, we would have come after you still," Athos said, his grasp in Aramis' hair tightening slightly, the tug just shy of painful, "you let us go once and we let you. This time if you resist Porthos here will knock you out and we'll bring you back trussed up if we have to."

A wet snort escaped Aramis.

It was only then that he felt the wetness on his face, noticed the warm trails that had been rolling over the bridge of his nose and soaking up the side of his face pressed onto Athos's doublet. He unclenched stiff fingers where they had grasped the same doublet that was under his head and had a feeling he might have left some nicks in the leather. As if it was a signal of safety to the rest of his body Aramis felt his shoulders slump, the joints in his legs loosen as did the stiffness in his back, muscles relaxing for the first time in over four years as the taut feeling in his bones melted away.

Between one blink and the next Aramis fell asleep.

* * *

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank you guest reviewers, Jmp, Tychen, Caroline, Debbie, Beeblegirl, Guest and Nanaa. You all who take the time to leave me your thoughts Thank you so much!**

 **there's still a bit left so...TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: The final chapter is here! For now this is the end of this 'verse. Maybe I'll add something to it like episode tags or a post season three story sometime in the future but that's just a thought at the moment. So THANK YOU everyone for all the kind words, the encouragement and patience.**

 **Thank you all who read, favorite, follow and reviewed this story. Thank you guest reviewers, Debbie, Guest, Jmp, Beeblegirl, Guest and Caroline; thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts. AND the people who left me PMs of their reviews during the mysterious case of invisible reviews; THANK YOU SO MUCH for such a sweet gesture; you guys just leave me bewildered with your kindness.**

 **This is a long one even though I didn't want to stretch it out :)**

 **Hope you all enjoy it!**

* * *

It was swift under his hand.

The taut, alert muscles simply letting go.

He glanced aside and met the blue eyes looking to him. Relief, grief and gratitude churned there as it did in his own chest, in that spot between his lungs before it rose as a lump in his throat. Athos looked down where his fingers were still tangled in the dark curls and Porthos followed his line of sight before he looked up. But the other man did not, and even as the drop trailed down the side of Athos' nose the corner of his lips curled up in a soft smile.

This, this unspoken declaration of trust placed in their hands was far more than any of them had expected to receive when they had ridden out after their friend.

Porthos let his hand rest where it was, on the side of his friend's belly where he had once stabbed him with a broken bottle. He wondered if he could feel the scars beyond the shirt or was it simply that he could not forget the sight of them from the previous night. How many times had this man been the only thing standing between them and death he wondered. Dropping his head back against the wall he closed his eyes against the hot blur in his vision. And tried not to think of what could have happened if they had not seen the proof of what their friend had gone through; tried not to dwell upon the twisting in his gut at the thought that Aramis had suffered in silence and he hadn't shared it, wouldn't have shared it with them. Porthos did his best to wipe out from his memory the defeat he had read in the lines of brother's posture when the man had finally let them see the evidence borne on his skin.

He shook his head slowly.

"We might have never known," he said.

"And he wouldn't have begrudged that," said Athos.

There was just a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Porthos understood that, it was still simmering in him, the anger at the way his friend had been used; and the thought settled as an ache behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose and caught the moisture at the corners of his eyes. For all his pursuits of beauty his friend had the rare ability to look past blemishes and short comings, it dawned on him that despite of their attitude towards him and what the man had went through, Aramis simply wanted acceptance just as he offered it himself.

" _Who are you?"_

" _My name is Porthos. I'm your son."_

" _Who told you this nonsense?"_

" _Captain Treville of the musketeers."_

" _Treville? It was his treachery that ruined my life."_

 _The man at his side who had been quiet until then steps up._

" _That's our captain you're slandering," he says._

 _A friendly warning, but a warning nonetheless._

" _That's my friend Aramis, also of the musketeers." Porthos says._

A grimace pulled at his face at the memory. His friend had defended the honour of their Captain even after he had known of Treville's role in Savoy. And now that he knew that what they had been denying was actually true Porthos had to wonder how his friend had found his peace with their Captain. How had he managed to forgive their Captain and how had he managed to still hold him in such a high regard?

He looked down at the man curled at his side and shook his head. Remembered the first words he had offered to his friend when they had met in Douai. He had felt betrayed and hurt by Aramis' abandonment and he had wanted to hurt him in return. He had wanted the man he called his brother to suffer for the pain he had caused him. And when Marsac had returned, claiming their Captain as a traitor he had wanted Aramis to know his mistake, wanted him to be chastised for siding with that traitor. Porthos winced, regret cutting at his heart for not being there for his brother in that time of loss and confusion...

" _Two inches deep that blade went, but you wouldn't know, would you? This one I trussed up during a skirmish we had in Poitiers; stitching that's fine enough for the Queen's chemise."_

...This was a man who knew the stories of his wounds as well as Porthos himself did; sometimes Aramis remembered them even more clearly than him. And that was why it was always so hard to forgive this man he realized. Porthos' hand clutched at his friend's shirt, eyes widening as it struck him that this was the difference; it wasn't that it was easy for Aramis to forgive, no, forgiveness was never easy. It was just that his friend was willing to forgive. Aramis forgave readily not easily, and that was why he was here at his side again, willing to take another chance at their brotherhood while his own temper had nearly pushed him away for good. Wincing at the thought Porthos let his head fall back against the wall again and closed his eyes again.

They shot open suddenly when the man curled at his side gasped. Porthos pushed away from the wall just as Aramis jolted up, mouth open in a silent scream.

" 'Mis?"

He was still, too still Porthos realized.

"Aramis?" Athos tried.

"I don't think he's breathing," d'Artagnan's voice wavered a little.

And Porthos saw it then, the hand Aramis was leaning on clawed at the floor while the other clutched his shirt over his chest in a death grip, the chest that was not moving. Fear stuttered his own breath and turned his voice to a whisper.

" 'Mis?"

On his knees and at his friend's side Porthos laid a hand on the man's shoulder.

Aramis flinched violently.

Sucking in a ragged breath he scrambled with his boots slipping against the floor as he backed up against the wall, hitting it with a hard thump as his head swung from side to side. Gasping fast and harsh as his wide eyes, almost completely black, looked from one man to the other. Porthos winced. He glanced at Athos who was moving back slightly, dragging d'Artagnan along with him. The younger man pulled out of his grasp with a frown but stayed where he was crouched at the Captain's side.

"What's wrong with him?" he demanded.

The short shallow breaths hitched at the voice and Porthos' heart skipped a beat, hands curling into fists in an effort to not touch his friend.

"Keep breathin 'Mis. Just keep breathing," his voice was pitched low.

In a prayer and a plea that Porthos wasn't sure if his friend had heard. Yet his gaze never strayed from Aramis, trying to catch the blank dark gaze that was flitting all over the room as the man blinked against the sweat that ran in rivulets down his face and neck; the skin there tinged red. Porthos glanced aside when d'Artagnan reached out but Athos stayed the younger man's hand. The Captain's face was pale and grim as the blue eyes met Porthos' gaze.

"It is fine, it'll pass," Athos said.

There was a trembling note under his words and Porthos wondered if Athos was trying to convince himself.

"What's happening to him?" d'Artagnan asked again.

And looked from them to Aramis who was breathing as if he had run too fast too far.

"He hadn't slept well since Savoy and after nights when he didn't sleep at all –" Porthos said.

"You mean this had happened before?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Four times, and in the mornings he remembered nothing of it," Athos said, eyes never leaving the shaking, sweating man pressed against the wall, "back when the wounds from Savoy were fresh he – that;" his eyes widened abruptly, "isn't good,"

"You think?" Porthos growled.

And backed away a little more; sat back on his haunches eyeing the dagger Aramis had pulled out from where it had been strapped onto his leg. The hand wrapped around the hilt shook and Porthos leaned forwards slightly.

"Aramis? 'Mis c'mon now, look at me," he ducked his head until the dark eyes found his own, "I'm here, you're safe. You don't need that,"

But his friend drew into himself; breathing quick and sharp he pushed back into the wall and brought the hand with the dagger closer to his chest. Porthos' breath dried up in his throat. He swallowed hard as Aramis clutched the dagger close to his heart as if it was the only thing left between him and death; the fingers of his other hand twitched where they were pressed onto the floor. There was fear in the black pools that were his eyes.

"Don't die," he whispered.

Shivered and shook his head as he pressed further into the wall.

"Die don't, don't die,"

"No one's dying Aramis," Athos moved closer.

Aramis started; dropped the dagger and fumbled to grasp it again. Porthos hissed when his brother clutched it from the other end, the blade cutting into the hand holding it tight. It took everything in him to not pull the weapon away and gather his brother close to him, to somehow sooth away the fear that had embedded itself so deep in his friend's mind.

Sitting back Porthos rubbed a hand over his eyes and cleared the sudden blur in his sight, cursed the assignment that wouldn't leave his brother alone even after all these years.

"Dead, dead, don't,"

"Aramis please," d'Artagnan shook his head.

"Don't die,"

"You're not there Aramis,"

"Don't die," it was soft amidst the gasps.

"This is not Savoy," Athos' voice was firm.

"Por favor,"

"We're all here and alive 'Mis,"

"Save them –" Aramis shuddered, "have to – safe not not safe not – they –"

Dropping the dagger he suddenly surged to his feet; staggered as he stepped away from the wall at his back and left a bloody imprint of his hand there. Steps lacking his usual smooth grace Aramis moved ahead, his gaze fixed forward and distant, looking past the room and its occupants and time itself. Muttering under his breath he reached out; an arch of crimson drops followed on the floor and Porthos stood after him, caught Athos' gaze that flitted to him and he read the same helpless anger there that he felt in his own heart, the bitter rage for the man who Aramis chased even after all these years.

Aramis stumbled into a chair and Porthos snagged his outstretched arm. The dark gaze shifted to him at the touch and Porthos wished with all his heart to never find that blank frightened look in his friend's eyes again. His eyes closed against the prickle in his sight as Aramis looked away, stared at something only he could see, reaching out to hold the phantom he was chasing. Porthos knew what would come next, that accursed name that had ended these bouts the first four times.

"...thos," Aramis whispered.

Porthos' eyes flew open just as his friend slumped.

* * *

He was still staring ahead when Athos caught up with his friend.

Grasped Aramis by the other arm that was reaching for the person Aramis was chasing in his nightmare and braced against the name of the deserter he knew would fall from his friend's lips; the deserter who Aramis was still walking away from him in his mind's eye.

The soft word that the man breathed out hit him like a mace to the chest and trapped his breath between his lungs; Athos nearly let go. He stared wide eyed as Aramis' eyes slipped shut and his friend dropped to the floor, knees hitting the ground in a controlled fall as Porthos' pulled him close with an arm around his shoulders.

Athos blinked rapidly, pulled in a breath as he realized he had gone down with the two of them.

He was on his knees too, hand still holding Aramis by the arm who was limp in Porthos' grasp. The big man had wrapped an arm around his friend's waist, the other around his shoulders as Aramis' head came to rest under his chin; face slack and unawares of the way Porthos clutched at him, oblivious of the feel of Athos' hand where it held on tight to his arm.

"Did he just say –?" d'Artagnan wiped a hand down his face, "that was not about Savoy."

It was not a question.

Athos looked to one of his oldest friends, the burning in his gaze not soothed when he saw the wetness in Porthos' eyes. His fingers curled into the arm they held and he had a feeling if Aramis had not been so deeply asleep he might have winced. Blue eyes fell onto the brother between them, hoping that he would wake in that instance and assure them that what they had seen, what they had heard, what they were thinking was not true.

"What have we done," it left him in a hoarse whisper, "what have we done?"

Athos looked to Porthos again; they had always wanted to clear away the memory of the fear that Savoy had instilled in Aramis, always sought a way to ease the pain of loss that Marsac's abandonment had left in their brother's life. And they had succeeded it seemed, just not the way they had ever dreamed they would. Athos swayed, shoulders dropping as he sat fully on the floor.

Aramis had called for him or Porthos.

He had been afraid for them and he had been chasing after them.

They had replaced his worst fear and his worst loss.

"I didn't think about it like that," he said.

"Neither did I," Porthos' voice was thick, "didn't see what he must've been going through,"

And they wouldn't have seen it if they hadn't found out the truth that night, they wouldn't have imagined it if Aramis had remained in the monastery, Athos was sure of it. They had taken Aramis' decision to leave, be it for a monastery or not, as something he had wanted to do. They hadn't looked beyond the surface.

His hand shifted from the arm to the back of his friend's head, resting there in the dark, sweat damp hair as his own head dipped in a silent apology.

"It's over right? He's sleeping again?" d'Artagnan asked.

"He had been asleep all along," Porthos said.

His chin coming to rest atop the head tucked under it.

"You mean through all that –?" d'Artagnan's eyes widened, "he was sleeping?"

Athos wiped a sleeve over the wetness still clinging to his eyes and let his hand drop to his sleeping friend's shoulder, remembered the first time this had happened and the next one that had brought Treville to them. The man had explained how he had seen it before in some soldiers.

"Sometimes in his sleep the defenses around his mind weaken and the fear he had locked away seeps out," he repeated the words their Captain had said, "It happens to some soldiers who had witnessed too much; especially when they're too worn out."

Or when they are bereft his mind added and it was clear by the way Porthos flinched that he was thinking the same.

Athos looked back at d'Artagnan when the younger man stood up and turned away, walked further into the house without a word. Frowning, Athos wondered if he should follow his friend or let him have his moment of peace. He hadn't missed the shiver that had gone through their youngest as he had stood up to leave. His thoughts came to a halt when d'Artagnan returned with an arm full of white.

"The floor couldn't be comfortable for his back," he shrugged.

Stepped away and dropped the pillows and bedcovers by the wall. Athos turned back to his friends as Porthos stood with an arm about Aramis' waist and the sleeping man's arm around his own shoulder he easily dragged their friend up with him. There wasn't really a need to help, Porthos was the strongest of them after all and it was just three steps away from the nest of pillows that d'Artagnan was setting up. But Athos found himself ducking under Aramis' other arm. Needing the man to somehow understand that he was there, that all of them were there and together, needing Aramis to know that he was not alone.

And from the corner of his mind that he hadn't wanted to shed light upon came the echo of his own voice riding on the wisps of a feverish haze that had long been cleared; his declaration of this man not being his friend, the permission to allow his death – his hand curled into the side of his friend's shirt where he gripped to steady Aramis.

"He is not my friend; you may take his life,"

"What?" Porthos stopped.

"I said that," Athos met the surprised gaze over the man slumped between them, "I said that to our captor," he looked down at the friend they were holding up and felt something hard and spiked sink in his chest, "I said that to his face,"

His knees threatened to give out under him and he was glad that they had reached the beddings d'Artagnan had set out. Extracting himself from the sleeping man he let Porthos settle him down and stepped away, drawing a hand down his face even as his other clutched the edge of the table. There was shivering under his skin, a shake in his fingers. Bile rose at the sour words that he had once said. He couldn't shake them away from his mind, couldn't push them away into the shadows of doubt. He had been staring right at Aramis; he had seen the man and he hadn't believed him there. He had looked him in the face and told him they were not friends, told their enemy that he could claim his brother's life.

There was a distant sound of a chair scraping against the floor before someone grasped his shoulder and guided him down to sit.

* * *

He let Porthos settle Aramis onto the beddings and turned his attention to the man in the chair.

Hands still grasping the bowed shoulders from where he stood behind his Captain whose dark head dip slightly and he knew without looking that the gaze fixed upon the table was full of guilt. His grip tightened on reflex, comfort offered and provided without thought or need for explanation. And d'Artagnan glanced back at the man now sleeping like the dead.

"We understand Athos," he said, "And so will Aramis,"

"Makes you wonder how he did what he did without anyone offering him that," Porthos said.

Stilled abruptly in his efforts to pull off Aramis' boot; wide dark eyes glanced up to meet d'Artagnan's as if the big man was surprised by his own thoughts that he had aired. And his words hung around them like an unseen web, soft and cloying, sticking to them and trapping them so that one wrong move could tear everything apart. D'Artagnan pulled in a breath and Porthos looked away; turned back to his task.

"He had friends," d'Artagnan said.

Refused to acknowledge how it sounded like a question.

"But not brothers," Athos' voice was tight, just shy of snapping; "What we met was at the end of the road. But at the beginning? During all that time?"

Blue eyes turned to him and there was a challenge there that d'Artagnan could not meet. He could not believe with all his heart that their brother may have had in anyway, the support that they offered each other; he could not deep down be sure that Aramis had some form of brotherhood to rely upon during all those years. His mind went back to the monastery they had found him in, to the moment when they had sent Aramis out with the children through the tunnels and Porthos' words dipped in contempt echoed back to him.

" _Your bothers are waiting,"_

But they hadn't had they; d'Artagnan grimaced, his real brother hadn't waited for him. Hadn't wrote back to him; hadn't shared their encounters to entice him back; hadn't asked how he was doing on his own; hadn't spoken his name even in the seclusion of their minds. And d'Artagnan wondered if all this would have been blown wide open years ago had they tried to establish some correspondence with the one who had walked away.

He shook his head, one hand falling away even as the other squeezed the shoulder in its grasp.

"You were tortured and feverish Athos," he said, "I'm sure that Aramis would have known that you were not in your right mind,"

"And I can tell you this," Porthos said from where he was divesting Aramis of his concealed weapons, "He wouldn't hold it against you."

Athos turned around in the chair, argument ready and rehearsed in his mind even as it formed d'Artagnan was sure. He stood straighter suddenly at the unexpected the silence that followed. Craning his neck he traced the older man's line of sight and felt his own eyes widen at the small but veritable pile of throwing daggers in numerous sizes; most still sheathed.

Blinking rapidly he glanced to his Captain and found the man pinching the bridge of his nose.

"How had he not accidently stabbed himself by now?" Athos asked from no one in particular.

Porthos threw one last dagger onto the collection and straightened back to his feet.

"I'm still wondering how he strapped some of them in place," he grinned.

"Why does he even need to carry so many weapons with him," d'Artagnan frowned.

And winced when realization hit in the next breath; a man with no friends and enemies on his path, Aramis was armed to take down the largest number he could on his own because he trusted no one to watch his back.

"I –" he started and stopped.

Looked from one man to the other and the way the others avoided his gaze d'Artagnan knew that they had reached the same conclusion. He cleared his throat and stepped away from Athos; needing something to do lest the silently unraveling secrets drowned him.

"I'll see to that cut then," he said.

And moved to retrieve the supplies he knew would be there in Aramis' saddlebag. Easily found the clean strips of linen wrapped around a bottle that he knew was rubbing alcohol and a shinny needle in a spool of thread. A smile tipped up his lips at the familiarity of it; even after four years at war they hadn't learned the necessity of keeping these supplies at hand and predictably found them stocked in Aramis' saddlebag.

D'Artagnan sat down at his friend's side and setting the items within an arm's reach he carefully picked up the injured hand; grimaced at the still sluggishly bleeding wound that had stained the man's sleeve in shades of red. Glanced up when the brightness around him increased and felt something ease in him at the sight of Athos who had come up to his side with a candle in hand.

"How bad is it?" Porthos asked.

He looked to the man sitting on Aramis' other side before taking up a piece of linen and mopping the blood that had not dried; he knew Porthos would look away. Even after so many battlefields the sight of blood didn't sit well with him.

"Deep," d'Artagnan tipped the wound towards the candle light, "but not as bad. I was expecting it to cut to the bone with the way he was gripping it."

"Small mercies," Athos murmured.

"There's an old scar here, a curved burn like he had grabbed something hot sometime ago," he spoke more to himself and pressed the cloth onto the wound to stop the bleeding completely, "it's faded but the skin must have hardened and prevented more damage,"

The glow around him wavered slightly and looking up d'Artagnan found his Captain's drawn face, eyes staring in the distance and jaw clenched. D'Artagnan silently berated himself for the words he had let slip as the stench of poultice Basile had used on Athos' burn wound drifted in his thoughts.

"Sit down Athos," he said, "Bring that light closer,"

And the Captain obliged, sitting down at his side before he fell down from the force of whatever memories that had assaulted him at the mention of the scar from burning. D'Artagnan lifted the cloth from the wound and dousing it with the contents of the bottle he touched it to the wound, eyes not leaving Aramis' slack face.

Blood stained fingers twitched.

And he was surprised when there was no more response.

"Whoa hey Aramis," Porthos said.

And d'Artagnan pulled his gaze away from Aramis' face to watch the man on his other side grabbing his uninjured hand. The one that had reached for some concealed weapon apparently and was now gripping back the hand preventing his move; the hold wrapped around the back of Porthos' hand at the base of the thumb and stopped just short of pulling that joint out of place.

"You don't need a weapon; we're here," Porthos said and grasped his shoulder too, ignored the strain put on his other hand, "Stand down Aramis there are no enemies around, just d'Artagnan patching you up."

Dark eyes opened at half-mast. D'Artagnan felt his breath stall when their gaze slid his way and lingered like the cool touch of a pistol muzzle against his forehead. Deep sleep lurked at the edges, softened the gaze that was much too alert for someone lying so deceptively still, but it did nothing to dampen the promise of violence there.

"Aramis?" his voice came out in a hushed breath.

Dark eyes still held his, fear and uncertainty flashing there even as the grip around Porthos' thumb eased off and the injured hand curled into a fist. Recognition settled fully in Aramis' gaze that shifted from d'Artagnan to Athos to Porthos before coming back to their youngest; he knew who they were d'Artagnan realized and felt the hesitance still remaining there cut deep. Aramis clearly knew who they were and yet some part of him was unsure, cautious; wary of the pain from their hands.

D'Artagnan swallowed back the rock that appeared in his throat.

"It will hurt," he said, "but I don't want it to,"

And refused to notice how childish the words sounded; how feeble the excuse they offered. His eyes stung when the injured hand opened to allow him access to the wound as if the fact that he didn't want to hurt the man was all the assurance Aramis needed. Blinking to clear the sudden blur in his gaze he watched the dark eyes close and the face turn away; lean into Porthos' touch that had shifted from his shoulder to the side of his face and fall right back to sleep.

D'Artagnan went back to his work and didn't look up, let the silence sooth the raw feeling Aramis' guarded look and tentative acceptance had left him with. They were trying and so was he; but the cracks remained and he wished he could wipe them away like he did the stains of fresh blood that had seeped from the injury he tended. D'Artagnan cleaned the wound and stitched it close without a trace of resistance or awareness from the sleeping man. Setting aside the needle he straightened and felt his muscles protest the hunched posture he had held, wriggled his fingers that were sticky with drying blood and glanced towards the clean linen; reluctant to touch it.

"I can do that," Athos said.

Set down the candle he had been holding up and nudged d'Artagnan aside even as he reached for the strips of cloth to wrap up their youngest's work.

Standing up d'Artagnan took a moment for the blood rushing to his toes to settle before he stepped away. Grabbed a bowl of clean water and washed the blood away from his hands, wondered of the scar his stitches may leave and found himself remembering the scars he had witnessed at an Inn in Paris; the scars that Aramis carried without them knowing about it. And d'Artagnan grimaced at the thoughts of the scars that that they couldn't still see; the ones from the wounds that no needle, thread or bindings could close.

With a shake of his head he set about putting the unused items back in Aramis' saddlebag and putting aside his weapons. He found himself staring at the sealed envelope that had been tossed in the heap of daggers and knew without being told that these were the orders he had come with to this place, the ones Treville had set him for upon his return to the front lines.

"Toss it in the fire," Porthos said.

D'Artagnan looked up and shook his head even though a large part of him wanted to do just that.

"He needs to decide what he wants," he said.

And placed the letter in Aramis's saddlebag before coming back to sit beside Athos. The Captain nodded towards the bandaged hand; a smile touching the corners of lips. D'Artagnan found himself echoing back the sentiment as he pointedly picked up the inured hand and checked the bandages.

"It will do," he smirked even as he approved.

Setting Aramis hand back on his chest he found himself grasping the long calloused fingers; found them chilled despite the warmth of the room. And he remembered the cold mountain wind, the deep snow and a pair of gloves not his own. He had held onto them, even when he had lost a piece he had kept the other one, worn and faded he had brought it back to Paris tucked among his meager belongings. Kept them close as a reminder of the kindness he had received amidst the most brutal years of his life so far. The men he had assumed strangers then had saved his life twice over, but the gloves on his hands were a token of compassion that had stuck with him far more than the courage shown in saving his life.

Taking to his feet he ignored the questioning look that passed between his friends and chose not to notice their raised brows when he came back with one of his riding gloves; putting it over Aramis' hand bindings and all. He nodded to himself; it was a snug fit but he could not help the sense of satisfaction that came over him.

Sitting back he moved away until his back was against one of the chairs and he pulled out the pistol that hung from a belt draped over it. Realized that it was Porthos' but still kept it as he looked from one man to the other.

"I'll take the first watch," he said.

Because they may be relatively secure in this house but if Aramis trusted them to watch his back, d'Artagnan vowed not take it lightly.

* * *

Awareness came slowly, the heavy pull of sleep ebbed from his bones and the darkness behind his eyelids faded; the awakening as blankly peaceful as his slumber had been. Breathing in he pressed his face into the padding under his head and stopped short, frowning when he realized it was a pillow under his head. Dark eyes blinked open, squinted against the beams of sunlight that slanted over his head, sliced through the air and brightened the dust into gold.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes Aramis sat up, looked from the light blanket that fell off him to the man sitting at the table.

Athos smirked at him.

"There is no need to imitate a puppy, we all slept out here," he said.

"There are beds in there you know," Aramis countered.

Stretched and stopped with a wince when his back protested with a twinge. And yet he felt rested in a way he hadn't for years. Smiling a bit at that odd feeling he didn't quite know what to make of he drew a hand through his hair; and lowered it instantly in the next breath. His hand throbbed. His hand that had a glove on hurt with that distinct burn of pulled stitches. Pulling off the rather tight glove Aramis stared at his bandaged hand before looking to Athos with a raised brow.

"You had a nightmare," Athos said, voice deliberately mild, "caught one of your daggers from the wrong end,"

"Did I hurt anyone?"

"Only yourself,"

He nodded even as he flexed his hand to test how bad the wound was beyond the bandage; wasn't really surprised that he had had one of those nightmares, the ones that had according to his friends often led him out of his rooms and the garrison too on occasion. Sleep hadn't been an easy visitor for him after Savoy and a part of him had been glad of its infrequent and fleeting visits during the past years, if only because he was afraid something like this could happen.

Folding up the blanket he pushed to his feet, smoothed out the grimace at the protest of his back as he went over to his saddlebag to get another shirt; tossed it over his shoulder. fingers running over the dried blood on his sleeve that was flaking on his arm beyond the cloth. He nodded towards the main door.

"I'll go get the–"

"Porthos left a bucket from the well in there for you," Athos nodded towards the nearest bedroom, "you can clean up,"

"That's perceptive of him," he changed directions.

"Nothing that you would have noticed before,"

"We were friends then," he said.

Smiled even as he shrugged a shoulder; the presence and camaraderie of those he had yearned to go back to, in the place that he had assumed had sealed his fate otherwise was tripping up his thoughts. Unsure of the ground beneath him he found himself grasping at the door he had just opened.

"And we are not now?" Athos asked.

"Of course we are,"

"But not brothers?"

He couldn't answer that, not yet, not when he didn't understand his place in this new order of things. Too much had changed, there was too much hurt among them on all sides and the distance of four years stretched too wide. He looked over his shoulder, back at the man silently watching him and met the blue eyes head on; refused to lie outright even if he couldn't yet place the truth.

Athos looked away.

And Aramis slipped into the room to wash up, thoughts still scrambling for coherence as he found himself once again tempted to simply revel in the camaraderie offered. When he stepped out again his friend was still there although the nest of beddings had been cleared away. Aramis walked over to Athos and took a place at the table across from him. The sound of clattering pots from somewhere inside the house echoed out and the afternoon light spilled in from the open front door. Aramis looked away from the door from where Porthos' voice filtered in and back to the man on the other side of the table. Athos slid a bowl towards him.

The porridge was still warm.

"You're not eating?" he asked.

"We had breakfast," Athos shrugged, "three times,"

Picking up the spoon Aramis realized he hadn't felt this hungry in years, it seemed as if his stomach was trying to eat itself for the lack of food. With the last night's purging still fresh in his memory he dared a small bite and forced himself to not gulp the porridge down immediately.

"Haven't slept for this long in a while," he said.

"You needed it,"

Aramis shrugged; he still felt exhausted but that had been his natural state for a while. It scared some part of him that he hadn't woken up at the manhandling that would have taken place to sort out the sleeping arrangements. But he pushed it away; assured himself that if he couldn't sleep soundly in the presence of the men he once called his brothers then there was no hope of him ever getting any rest.

A sharp pain knifed up his back and he sat straighter abruptly, his spoon stopping halfway to the bowl of porridge. He waited for the inevitable subsiding, relieved when the pain receded much quickly than it had ever before. He didn't miss the blue eyes watching carefully but ignored them in favor of breakfast. He wasn't surprised when the silence didn't last long.

"Your scars still hurt,"

"What gave you that idea?" he smirked.

"That night on the street, with your friends," Athos gave him a leveled look, "you were in pain,"

Aramis stopped, stared at the porridge before him as he searched for the right words. Because he could say he was fine, it would be lie and they would all know it was one. He could lie and blame it on some other small hurt that would go away on its own and knowing the man at his side it was probably wise to lie simply because the man had an unhealthy habit of shouldering the blame that wasn't his.

"It's your back. The scars still hurt," Athos said, "you were there, you came in after me; got yourself caught so that you could escape with me."

"Whatever happened in there it was not your fault," Aramis said.

"But I was the reason you were there,"

"It was my decision to come after you,"

"That –"

"– is what matters," Aramis cut him off, "my decision not yours."

And he couldn't help the firmness that seeped into his words; four years of command making the decisiveness in his voice a habit. It was obvious from Athos' raised brows that he had picked up on it and Aramis had a feeling that this would be problem between them in the future if not now. He picked up his spoon and concentrated on his food, reminded himself that he needed to keep faith in his friends that they will not abandon him; that they will work together to somehow find a way out of the mess they were all in.

"So your back?"

"It's not the scars," Aramis said, "at least I think it's not the scars but the time spent on the rack,"

Athos paled slightly.

"The strain?" he asked.

Aramis nodded.

"Is it constant?"

And there was so much guilt in that quiet question that Aramis found himself shaking his head even as he swallowed. Dropping the spoon back in the bowl he pushed it aside and sat forwards, elbows pressed onto the table even as he drew his uninjured hand down his face. He hadn't thought about it much, had hoped the pain would go away if he ignored it but he could not do that anymore, not with the sad blue eyes watching him. He would have to face this not for himself but for Athos; Aramis shook his head again even as he felt a smile touch his lips.

"No," he said, "it comes and goes. If I move wrong or if I practice too hard it flares up. But I think it would get better once the bruising fades."

He saw Athos flinch at that and grimaced at the realization that he had reminded his friend of their recent practice bouts again, something for which the Captain of the Musketeers was obviously feeling guilty.

"It was not your fault Athos, and neither was it Porthos'," he sighed, "you were trying to help me. Make sure I could hold my own. You didn't know."

"It wasn't all that it was," Athos chin rose in defiance although his voice sounded disgusted, "there was anger in there too,"

"And you were entitled to that, you and Porthos and d'Artagnan," he met the dare with an even tone, "I did leave you all. You had every right to be hurt and angry over it."

"And you don't?"

He looked away, to the door, to the floor and finally at the tabletop before him; fingers of his good hand tracing the edge of the bandage wrapped around his other as he shook his head slowly. Each stab of loss that he had felt during his time of shadowing his friends, every cutting reminder of his isolation that he had experienced in that time and every hurt that had blossomed from the words and actions of his friends at his return swirled to the surface. His eyes burned, his vision blurred.

Aramis pulled in a breath and let it go slowly.

Brushed away the wetness he felt on his face and looked up at his friend.

"I don't," he said, "It was my actions that brought us to that point and my decisions that kept you all away and in the dark."

Because he could not forget Marguerite, he could not forget Lemay; he could not forget the haunted look on Constance's face in the shadows of their prison bars. And the sad thing was that he knew if he went back to the same situation he would still fall for the Queen, would unravel the same sequence of events and make the same decisions to contain the consequences of it.

"But we hurt you," Athos said.

"Yes you did," Aramis shrugged a shoulder, "I'll get over it,"

Athos' jaw twitched, eyes narrowing slightly in the sure sign that the man was beyond irritated. But then his gaze softened, Aramis had a feeling that the man had deciphered something and the realization he had had was not a happy one. Athos tipped his head to the side, his studying gaze oddly sad.

"When Marimon threw you out of the window, were you injured?" he asked.

That, Aramis blinked, was not what he was expecting. But the words brought him back to that afternoon shinning bright in his memory and he could still taste the fear for those left inside, the need to get up and move and protect those he loved.

"And I scaled the building to get inside after that, what do you think?"

"Were you injured?"

"I landed on the awning," he shrugged.

"Other than the cuts we could see, were you injured?"

"Athos –"

"Were you injured?"

"Yes,"

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"You never asked," it came out in as barely more than a whisper.

And he had no idea why his eyes ached suddenly, why the wetness gathered at their corners and Aramis dropped his gaze back to the tabletop. Why his friend insisted upon prodding at those old wounds he couldn't understand but when he looked up it was to find a strange determination in the blue eyes. Athos nodded, breathed out and looked away.

"Just like we didn't ask about Marsac after his death," he nodded again, speaking more to himself than anything else.

"Athos –"

"There was a man, dark skinned in Spanish uniform, he said he was there to help me," Athos looked back to him, "he was one of yours?"

A lump rose abruptly in his throat but Aramis couldn't look away, couldn't shy away from the memory of the men who had died under his command. He respected them too much for that. He nodded once, alert and defensive for the men he had lost.

"He didn't make it," Aramis cleared his throat, "him and another, they came with me to that chateau but didn't make it back alive."

The blue eyes widened but when Athos spoke next his voice was even.

"Then I can never thank them for it," he said.

"They were good men," said Aramis.

And as the words left him the weight he didn't know he was carrying in his chest lessened suddenly. Because letting that small knowledge slip out, to have someone else other than him know that those men were there, that he was there, was a validation he hadn't realized he needed.

"I'm sure they were," Athos said.

Aramis crossed his arms on the table and leaned on them, head hanging slightly as he tried to understand why his heart sped up suddenly and squeezed his eyes shut against the abrupt flashes of his time in imprisonment sparked in his mind; the pull of the rack, the cutting tug of the ropes, the stench of that room. Aramis jumped in his skin when a chair moved somewhere near him.

He looked up even as he willed himself to calm down; blinked against the sweat that broke out on his forehead and down his back, looked at Athos who was now standing near him.

"Will you let me see?" Athos asked.

Aramis blinked again, tried to understand the words. Wondering what his friend was asking for and felt everything still in him when he understood the question. He couldn't breathe and he wasn't sure if his heart was beating too fast or not at all. Swallowing against his suddenly dry throat he watched his friend reach out, noticed the slight tremble that went through Athos' hand and clenching his jaw shut against every instinct that told him not to, Aramis tipped his face up and to the side.

Dared not let go the breath the question had locked in his chest as his friend moved closer, fingertips brushing against the one scar that no one could see unless Aramis let them.

"You didn't make a sound. It convinced me you weren't real," Athos said, "I thought I was letting some unfortunate soul suffer for my silence. I didn't know that –"

His touch shifted, moved for the palm of his hand to rest at the back of Aramis' neck. And Aramis breathed out. Refused to acknowledge the words that had settled beneath this one scar making it hurt in ways no other injury could. But Athos waited, silent and still until Aramis gathered his courage to look up at him again.

"I am sorry my friend," Athos said.

Aramis nodded before he looked away.

Because explanations were good and they would come in time, but he was glad that his friend understood they weren't needed here. He just needed to hear, to see, to know that the man he had considered his brother was sorry for the words that had hurt him.

The hand lifted from the back of his neck and settled on top of his head; the weight of it soothing and relieving in a way that made his heart ache and his shoulders drop. Athos didn't pull away and neither did Aramis. He could not find the strength to move away from a gesture that only two people in his life offered him. The first was Treville; a presence that had seen him through in the ways his own father hadn't while growing up and then there was Athos. Aramis wondered if it was an older sibling thing that his friend carried even after years of losing his little brother; this ability to simply melt away the troubles he carried by the warm weight of Athos' hand on his head.

His breath evened and the coiled feeling in his gut loosened, the noise in his mind silenced as it had the first time Athos had found him on the stairs and dropped his hand atop his bowed head. He had no idea how long they stayed that way but Athos finally ruffled his hair and stepped away as footfalls came through from the main door.

Porthos came in smelling of horses. He thumped Aramis on the shoulder on his way, grinning as he went to the far corner of the room and returned with three saddles and Aramis' saddlebag that he dumped on the table.

"I think I should have another breakfast," Porthos said.

"I've just finished cleaning the kitchen," d'Artagnan came through the corridor wringing his wet hands, "you are not getting anything else to eat,"

"I'm telling Constance on you," Porthos told him, a smirk curling on his face, "starving your friend because you had to clean a few bowls,"

As d'Artagnan muttered under his breath and went to look into the pot in the fireplace, Aramis fished out the letter that he spotted in his saddlebag. He looked to their youngest who grinned in triumph at the big man.

"There's no more food left," he announced.

"We should get going then," Athos told them.

His gaze flicked to the letter in Aramis hand and the other two follow his line of sight. Aramis could feel the weight of the three gazes that turned his way as he flipped the letter between his fingers, it was his one chance of leaving all this behind, to leave the bonds that hurt too much to hold on to. And he asked himself if he really wanted that and did he really understand the cost of going back to Paris, if he had in him to face it all again. The silence grew thick around him, heavy on his shoulders as he took to his feet with the letter still in his hand. Aramis rounded the table and tossed the letter in the embers glowing in the fireplace.

The room let go a breath.

"Well this is the last pot I'll clean," d'Artagnan said.

Reached out to pluck the round black pot from the fireplace and grinned at Aramis, offered him a nod before he went back to the kitchen. Aramis turned away from him when he felt a hand on his back; he looked to Athos who was standing behind him.

"We'll get the horses saddled," he said.

Picked up the saddles from the table and headed out. Porthos stood to follow him. Turned around and wrapped Aramis in a quick embrace before he was hurrying out too. Aramis watched him pick up small the sack he was pretty sure filled with the daggers he usually carried under his clothes before the big man walked out of the house. Deciding not to call his friend out on escaping with his weapons Aramis turned back to the letter that lay in the hot soot and smirked lightly. For all the excitement over sending it up in flames the thing wasn't even scorched. With a shake of his head he reached for the fire iron. Poked at the embers until they stirred and the corner of the letter caught a flame.

Standing back he watched the orders that would have likely sent him on ahead to his end in some battlefield. And yet he was thankful that Treville had given them to him when he had asked. Offered him the way out that he had believed he wanted. Aramis watched the letter burn, the wax melt and the paper curl. And even if he knew he was not allowed to know the content, he was not allowed to know the orders if he was not following them he still could not look away.

So he simply stared when Treville's curling writing came into view.

The letter held just a few words for his orders.

And the words said; ' _Come home._ '

Aramis stared spellbound.

He looked up with a start as his young friend stomped out from the corridor leading to the kitchen. D'Artagnan wiped his hands on his breeches and Aramis looked over his shoulder to where Athos and Porthos were waiting at the threshold.

"Here," d'Artagnan said.

And when he glanced towards the younger man he found a pair of gloves held out to him

"They won't be a perfect fit but they'll keep the reins from pulling at the bandage,"

"I don't –" he stopped short at the pointed look from d'Artagnan and found himself smiling; reached out and took the gloves without anymore protest, "thank you,"

"I owed you a pair," d'Artagnan shrugged.

Looking down at the simple offering that meant more than anything either of them could put into words Aramis let go a breath, glanced at the ashes of his orders in the cooling hearth and realized he would always make the choice he did, the choice he was making again; he would always chose the path that led him to these men. He knew that neither of them could retrieve the lost years between them and no matter how much they wanted his friends had changed and so had he. They would need to find their feet in this changed world and there would be slip ups and mistakes and hurts on the way. But he knew he would always find it was worth it, just as he had believed it when he had returned to Paris with them the first time around. Because they were family, they were his brothers and there was no amount of hurt that could keep him from them. He would hold on to these bonds even if they shredded his hands to the bone.

"You ready?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I am," he said.

And he followed their youngest out to where the rest of his brothers awaited. Aramis didn't look back as he closed the door after him.

* * *

 _ **You'd think that I'd learn my lesson by now  
You'd think that I'd somehow figure out  
That if you strike the match you're bound to feel the flame  
You think that I'd learn the cost of love  
Paid that price long enough  
But still I drive myself right through the pain  
Yeah, well it turns out I haven't learned a thing**_

– _**Daughtry [Learn my Lesson]**_

* * *

 **END**


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